“A hit?”
“Pretty sure it wasn’t a dispute over a piece of pie,” Lassiter said. “Caught him in one of three CCTV blind spots. A lifer took the fall. Aryan Nation asshole affiliated with the Bruderschaft Motorcycle Club. Three months later the lifer’s old lady—some chain-smoking mattress pad—buys a new condo and a tricked-out Ford F-150. Cash. I know you won’t believe me, man, but I’m truly sorry for everything I’ve put you and everybody else through. I haven’t enjoyed a goddamn bit of it. But I’m doin’ what I gotta do ’cause this shit’s got to end.”
“Did you know Foley was dirty?”
“As a pig,” Lassiter said. “He’s the reason I got dropped in. Shadow the shadow. But he was only one dirty piece to this filthy puzzle and I wasn’t about to sacrifice two years just to snag his sorry ass. He’s gone dark. Nothing. Just—poof.”
O’Donnell and I exchanged quick glances.
“Lassiter’s on the level, August,” O’Donnell said. She held up her phone and showed me Lassiter’s DEA ID and agent profile. “I had an agent that owes me one vet him on the sly. He’s neck-deep in this and he’s given the DEA and FBI some good, actionable intel.”
“We’ve documented a couple routes,” Lassiter said. “We know some of the women are sold back to coyotes, or forced into high-end prostitution at loosely affiliated sex clubs working out of high-end resorts in Riviera Maya, Puerto Vallarta and Los Cabos. Corporate clientele level. Anywhere from three to five mil in estimated quarterly revenue. As you might guess, the Mexican authorities aren’t exactly jumpin’ at the chance to help us.”
“Cut one tentacle off, there’s seven more,” I said. “And knowing where some of these women end up is not finding the head of the beast and chopping it the hell off.”
I sat back for a moment and sipped my vodka.
Between the three of us, we had everything and we had nothing.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you pulled the chute on this one, Snow,” Lassiter said. “You’re a private citizen and you got no skin in the game.”
“No skin in the game?” I said. “Pretty fucking ironic thing to say, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” I said. “But truth is, some folks are born with skin in a fucking game.” I took a breath. Standing, I said, “I live in Mexicantown, Lassiter. ICE agents spend half their time pounding down good Mexican food then, instead of paying the fucking bill, they arrest and deport the cook because he sold a joint to a cousin eight years ago. And that same joint that got the brown guy booted from the country is what white guys are lining up for at their pot dispensaries if they’re not starting their own grow houses. So ‘no skin in the game’? Fuck you.”
“August,” O’Donnell said. “Come on. Sit down. Let’s—”
“Let’s what, O’Donnell?” I said. “Hold hands and sing that old time Ghulla-Geechee Kumbaya? Why is it when white folk suddenly take a tumble into the shit they want to work with the black or brown guy who wakes up every day drowning in it? No, O’Donnell. Not this time. You do what you gotta do. I’ll do the same.”
“August—”
I threw a couple bills on the table and walked out.
When I got home, it was early Tuesday evening. The temperature hadn’t abated from its noon high of eighty-six, but now the air had the consistency of tepid soup.
Seated on my porch steps was Jimmy Radmon wearing Carhartt work shorts, a plum-purple Club Brutus T-shirt, and looking worked to sweaty exhaustion. He was drinking a luminescent green bottle of Mountain Dew.
“You okay?” I said, wheeling the Harley into my driveway.
“Yeah,” Jimmy said standing. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t—”
“Go inside,” I said. “I have the feeling we’ve both had pretty crappy days.”
I left the Harley in my shed next to the stripped-down Olds 442 (the boys had sanded it smooth and begun patching) then went into the house through the back door.
Jimmy was seated at my kitchen island, guzzling his Mountain Dew. He had a ten-thousand-mile stare in his eyes. That stare that removes you from yourself.
Jimmy gave his head a slight shake, then said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Snow. I don’t mean to—”
“To what? Bring goddamn Mountain Dew into my house?” I grabbed a fistful of ice out of the freezer and dropped it into a tall glass. “Yeah, well, don’t ever do it again. And that goes for Cheetos, too.” I poured myself a generous glass of water, took an appreciative gulp, then set out a bowl of my homemade salsa and taco chips. “What’s up, kid? I hear you’re flying solo to the prom.”
“Uh—what?”
“The girl you were seeing,” I said. “What’s her nickname? Mothra? She broke up with you.”
“I broke up with her,” Jimmy said. Then he said, “You ever be around somebody that you like but you don’t like some of the stuff they do? And it kind of—adds up?”
“Yeah,” I said. “My accountant and my lawyer.”
Jimmy smiled. Then he said with deadly seriousness, “You know I don’t like being around no dope, right, Mr. Snow?”
“I do.”
“I mean except for Carmela and Sylvia,” Jimmy said. “But even with they brownies I feel a little—you know—twitchy. I seen what that nonsense do to people. Messes with they mind. This girl I was seeing—she liked to smoke dope before we watched a movie—you know. It—changed her. Not in a bad way. Just not in a real way. See what I’m sayin’, Mr. Snow?”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“I ain’t judgin’ nobody,” Jimmy said. “Everybody got the right to do what they got to do. But me myself? I—seen too much of what that stuff do to people. And it just—reminds me of what I don’t wanna think about. Don’t wanna be around.”
“Does it bother you when I drink?”
Jimmy laughed. “Aw, shoot no, Mr. Snow. You got a more clear head on a couple beers than most people what never touch the stuff. And with what you been through, you done earned the right to do you, dawg. It’s just—”
“You can’t force yourself to overlook something that goes against your principles, Jimmy. And you can’t change your experiences to fit someone else’s life. You may like her. And she may like you. That doesn’t mean you’re meant for each other. You’re one of the kindest, smartest, most talented people I’ve ever had the privilege to know. I’m kinda glad I didn’t kill you when we first met.”
Jimmy laughed. “Me, too.”
“You’ll find somebody, kid,” I said. “She’s out there, bumpin’ around in the dark just like most of us. And when you finally bump into each other, well—instead of the formless void, there shall be light.”
“Like Miss Tatina?”
“Like Miss Tatina,” I said.
This was the first time in years I thought about my dad and me, sitting on the steps at the back of the house, under an early summer night sky, his hand on my shoulder, having “the talk” after Clare Rutilani broke my middle-school heart. It felt good to know I had at least a modicum of hard-won wisdom I could pass on to a young man who I suspected had seen more shit in his first ten years of life than I’d seen in my first twenty.
Thirty-four
From the outside you’d think Mr. and Mrs. Peter and Patsy Americana lived at 8384 Toblin Circle Drive, Birmingham, Michigan. Some nice silver-haired retired couple with closets full of bright cardigans and spiffy golf slacks.
Lucy had given me a good satellite’s overview of the house. Of course, here on earth, my curse is noticing the little off-kilter details in otherwise idyllic settings. Like the discreetly placed state-of-the-art security cameras.
Security cameras in the wealthy northwest suburb of Birmingham were nothing unusual; residents jealously guarded their amassed fortunes and affluent lifestyles. But six front-facing cameras had to be a paranoid rec
ord. I could only imagine how many cameras monitored the sides of the house and the four-car garage in back.
With the gleefully self-righteous disposition of a Seventh Day Adventist, I flashed my pearly-whites at the double door peephole camera and gave the doorbell button a good push, apparently activating the bells at Oxford’s Church of St. Mary the Virgin.
After a moment the door cracked open, revealing a third of a pretty woman’s face including one emerald-green eye.
“Yes?”
“Hi! My name’s August Snow.”
“Are you selling something, Mr. August Snow?” the woman said, scanning me from head to toe. I doubted very much she was admiring my Adonis-like body. “I’m afraid we don’t do solicitors.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not selling anything. But I bet you are.” The woman narrowed her single green-eyed gaze at me. “And from the sound of things, you just cocked the hammer on a short barrel .32. Maybe a .38? Tell Miss Reinbach—The Major—it’s important we talk.”
Reluctantly, the woman opened the door.
Her other eye was also emerald green, making the set supernaturally beautiful.
She was dressed for sex and murder; a short black leather skirt, form-fitting black lace bodice, seamed black stockings and black stiletto heels. Secured around her length of smooth white neck was a black lace choker bearing a silver skull.
“You have lovely eyes,” she said, easing the hammer down on her Smith and Wesson .38. “Like—chocolate milk.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And may I say your eyes—”
She slapped me hard across the face.
As I recovered she said, “That nine-milly you’re carrying? Keep it stowed, lover, or someone might get hurt. We clear?”
“As a Pictured Rocks stream.”
“So, what brings you here, Mister Snow?”
“What brings me here is a long story. Suffice it to say people are trying to kill me probably because of this house—and I want to know why.”
“And you know Miss Reinbach—how?”
“That’s between me and Miss Reinbach.”
“You sure you want to play it like that?”
“No other play,” I said. “Now you can go get her, or I can take that peashooter from you and find her myself. What’s it gonna be, Green Eyes?”
Green Eyes stared at me for a few long seconds, then said, “I’ll see if she’s available.”
“By the way,” I said, rubbing the cheek she’d slapped, “I’m not paying for that.”
She smiled at me. “Not now you aren’t.”
The foyer was pleasantly decorated with a ceramic tile floor, cream-colored walls hung with expensive abstract art and several vases overflowing with colorful flowers. To my left was a brightly lit study with leather club chairs, antique side tables, tall bookcases and a large fieldstone fireplace. To my right was an open concept dining room that I imagined shared space with an equally large kitchen.
Nothing that said tie-me-up-tie-me-down.
Save for maybe the mortgage.
The wide staircase at the back of the foyer was railed with nice wood, the steps covered with an oriental-style runner. Above the staircase was a discreet bronze plaque bearing the engraved words, Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’entrate.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
“Mr. Snow!”
An athletically built strawberry-blonde woman in her mid-fifties wearing a form-fitting couture dress and expensive shoes walked briskly toward me, her well-manicured hand extended. I took her hand and we shook. It was a strong handshake.
“‘And I thought the major was a lady suffragette.’”
“McCartney?” Smiling, she narrowed her eyes at me. “Aren’t you’re a little too young to appreciate Sir Paul?”
“My mom was a McCartney fan. Wings. Not Beatles. A sucker for the Paul and Linda love story.”
“Come!” she said brightly. “Let’s talk!”
I followed The Major upstairs and down a long hallway, past eight black doors to a set of black double doors at the east end of the house.
A striking young black woman emerged from one of the eight rooms we’d passed.
“Ms. Reinbach?” the young woman said.
The Major turned and grinned affably at the young woman.
“MarKesha, darling!” The Major said. “You’re here early.”
“My noon chem lab was canceled,” the young woman said. She held up a white leather bodice and matching mask. “Sorry to interrupt, but is this the set you ordered for me?”
“Yes,” The Major said. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“The cat-o’-nine-tails is black. It’s supposed to match.”
The Major sighed heavily. “This is the third time. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it, dear.”
“Thank you.”
MarKesha disappeared back into her room.
Next to the double doors leading to The Major’s office was a keypad. She pressed five numbers, the doors unlocked and I followed her in.
The Major’s office was less whips-and-chains and more Nantucket retreat; the built-in bookshelves were crowded with volumes old and new and the expanse of her large desk appeared to be antique cherry. There were two well-worn leather wingback chairs positioned in front of the desk and a white leather chaise near a tall window. Perhaps the only window with normal curtains that let the early Tuesday afternoon sun in. The hardwood floors were adorned with casually strewn Persian rugs.
She gestured to one of the wingback chairs and I sat.
“Drink, Mr. Snow?” The Major said.
“If it’s on the house.”
She laughed. “I’m not that avaricious. Just because we are trained in the art, science and psychology of S&M doesn’t mean we lack in good manners and civility. Whiskey’s fine?”
She poured two neat tumblers of whiskey and handed one to me.
“So,” she said, taking a seat behind her desk. “No one calls me ‘The Major’ save for old acquaintances and a few special clients. I think I’d remember you as a client; you have a certain—carriage—about you. So, an acquaintance? Perhaps a charity function?”
“Duke Ducane.”
The color drained from her tanned and freckled face. She stared wide-eyed at me for a disbelieving moment.
“You—work—for Duke?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m the ex-cop who put him away for a nickel in Jackson. I got to know a lot about Duke. Like how he trusted a woman named Florence Elizabeth Reinman enough to let her run prostitution for him. She disappeared with two million of his bucks six months before I collared him. Probably the only time in his life he’s ever displayed a heart that could be broken. Another reason why I’ve had this nagging feeling that I didn’t quite collar him so much as he gave up. With you, it went beyond business-arrangement trust. It was love.”
“What do you want?”
“This is a hub for kidnapped women trafficked for high-end sex clubs. I want to know who you work for and where the next stop in the pipeline is for these women.”
The room flooded with silence. She took an unsteady sip of her whiskey and, trying to be as subtle as possible, pressed a button under the desk top. Then she said, “I honestly have no idea what you’re—”
“I don’t have time for this,” I said. “I’m guessing you’re scared of both your new employers and your old employer—Duke Ducane. Duke has no idea you’re here. No idea you’re doing business in his backyard. And no idea you seeded this business with his money. You need a minute to decide who you’re most afraid of?”
“You fucker.”
“That I am,” I said snapping back the rest of my whiskey and pushing the empty tumbler across the desk to her. “Here’s the deal: I walk out of here with a name, maybe you get to keep your little shop of orgasmic horrors.
Otherwise, Duke finds you and dumps pieces of you in each of the Great Lakes. ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / Nor hell a fury like a pimp scorned.’”
The double doors behind me opened and Green Eyes stormed in, holding the black-hole business end of revolver on me.
“First you slap me,” I said to Green Eyes. “Now you’re gonna shoot me? Are we married and nobody told me?” To The Major, I said. “Well, I had to try, right? I can see I’ve worn out my welcome, so—no harm, no foul?”
I offered my hand to The Major. She stood and signaled for Green Eyes to lower her weapon. Then, reluctantly, she put her hand out to shake mine. In the space of a second, I had her wrist and pulled her half-way across the desk. I had my Glock out and pointed at her forehead.
“I shoot your employer, you’re out of a job,” I said to Green Eyes.
I didn’t like the way she smiled.
“Go ahead. Shoot her,” Green Eyes finally said. “’Bout damned time I got a promotion.”
I had the sinking feeling I was pointing my gun at the wrong person.
“Anna?” The Major said.
“Oh, for God’s sakes!” Anna erupted. “You really think I like working for you? You and your—your pathetically outdated ’90s fashions and superior attitude! Jesus! Eight years of you cherry-picking my ideas to improve the business. It was my idea to bring in this new organization! My time! My negotiations!”
“You—you’re like a daughter to me—”
“And you’re like a stupid cow to me!”
“You bitch!”
“Put a bullet in her, Snow,” Anna said. “My gift to you. Then I put a bullet in you. Or try to get the drop on me and I kill you. Then I shoot her with your gun. Makes no difference. Sure, it’s a little messy, but the new organization? They’ll have this cleaned up in an hour.”
“I take it this new organization doesn’t much like fuck-ups or hostile takeovers?”
“Let’s just say at this early stage of operations they prefer changes with cleaner sight lines.”
Lives Laid Away Page 18