Inhuman Trafficking

by Mike Papantonio

  His words set her off like an alarm. “Me?”

  “You want the cops looking through your affairs? It didn’t take my team long to find out how dirty you and your businesses are.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Her innocent act, her suddenly pretending not to understand English, wasn’t cutting it with him.

  “You understand very well. I hope you’re not starting to believe that Cinderella story you like to tell about a Ukrainian girl who came to the US and found her fortune and true love. Before your crooked husband died, he salted away millions in illegal funds, money you parlayed into the ownership of a resort hotel. That’s your legitimate front, and it’s a good one. Where I was brought up, we’d say you got more money than you could say grace over. I imagine that property is a great place to launder the money from your strip club/whorehouse.”

  Vicky was the definition of a Judas goat, he thought. She brought in young and pretty workers on H2B visas and led them to the slaughterhouse.

  “I am not without friends,” Vicky said.

  “You mean those politicians you bought off? There’s a big difference between those leeches and vampires you deal with and what I represent.”

  He turned on a light, so that she could get a good look at him and what he was. That made her very nervous, and for good reason.

  “Your friends are minnows, Vicky. They’re not sharks.”

  He looked at her and smiled. She saw his teeth and shrank back from them.

  “On the night of the accident, I talked to your people. They understood when I told them how it’s in everyone’s best interests to forget what happened. Loose lips sink ships, right? So, we can’t have that. If word gets out, we’d all be held liable. Including you. Especially you. Those who were there understand we’re all looking at some serious jail time. That’s why we have to put all of this behind us. And the way we do that is by having you incentivize their silence with some money.”

  The extra precautions might not be necessary, but he wasn’t going to take chances. If matters went as hoped, the drowned girl’s death wouldn’t be carefully scrutinized. Cops typically weren’t very vigilant if they believed the victim was a prostitute. In law enforcement jargon, a hooker’s death was sometimes referred to as an “NHI” death—no human involved.

  As expected, though, the whore didn’t like the idea of paying out of pocket. “Karina’s death is already costly to me. And it poses problems.”

  “If you don’t spread some money around, that could pose a lot more problems. You’re not stupid. What you’re doing is buying an insurance policy. By taking the blood money you’re offering, it further implicates them and ensures their silence. That’s why you’re going to arrange for everyone who was working the party boat to get ten thousand dollars apiece.”

  “That’s too much!”

  “This isn’t a negotiation. It’s the market price for guaranteeing collective amnesia.”

  “Shouldn’t you pay half?”

  His hand shot out, grabbing her chin. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Over the scent of her too-strong perfume, he suddenly caught the smell of her fear. He ground her chin between his thumb and index finger before removing his hand.

  Vicky offered him an appeasing smile. She had probably done some oppo research of her own, and knew that not complying with his demands could be very dangerous to her health.

  “I will do as you say.”

  “I’m glad we understand one another. And I don’t have to tell you that I’ll be keeping tabs on you to make sure you comply with everything we discussed.”

  She responded to his threat with a nod.

  “Shame your girl fell overboard, but she shouldn’t have been drinking, especially since she didn’t know how to swim. Then again, she paid for her carelessness. None of us can be careless, right?”

  Vicky was sitting very still. His insinuation wasn’t lost on her. Still, he was surprised at how compliant she had been. He had expected more of a fight. Was he missing something? He tried to get a read of her eyes, but she was avoiding eye contact. She was afraid of him. That must be it.

  Her fear turned him on. For being forty-six years old—Vicky claimed to others she was forty-one—she still looked youthful. Although he preferred redheads, she would do.

  “If we’re done with business, let’s move on to the next subject.”

  He turned off the car light. To his thinking, he was still owed for what the dead whore hadn’t provided. Pulling down his zipper, he looked at her expectantly.

  XXI

  It was getting late in the day by the time Michael arrived at Panama City Beach. So far, he’d stopped at eight marinas, making inquiries at each to find out more about Karina’s strip trip. Unfortunately, he was still looking for answers.

  At five o’clock, there were still plenty of people milling about Captain Randy’s Marina. Sunset cruises were setting out, and tourists were settling into the perfect dining spot to look out upon St. Andrew’s Bay. At the dock, a fish market was tending to the day’s catch, where many sunburned fishermen were getting their redfish and grouper filleted.

  Michael went to the marina’s office, hoping to talk to someone about boat charters or tours, but found the office had just closed for the day. A sign on the window listed the private charter boats, dive boats, and tour vessels operating out of the marina. No one was advertising booze cruises, or the availability of strippers for hire, but he did see a handful of listings for party fishing boats.

  The party boats were identified with a captain and a contact number. Michael called the first number and clicked off when a message came on. The same thing happened with the second number. The third time proved to be a charm. Captain Ernesto “Moss” Macias, who operated the Easy Way Out, answered.

  Michael tried to be folksy. “Glad to hear a human voice. My name’s Michael, and I’m standing at the marina charter office, but it’s closed up tight. I came by hoping to get some information on a party boat rental.”

  “I might be able to help you if you can hang tight for five minutes,” he said.

  “Much appreciated,” Michael said.

  * * *

  The Captain was good with his time frame. “Michael?”

  The man coming toward him was tall and heavyset with a short white beard. On his T-shirt was a picture of a fisherman casting a line and the words, I CAN’T WORK TODAY BECAUSE MY HAND IS IN A CAST! Work jeans and mesh-lined fishing shoes completed his outfit.

  “Moss,” said the man, and they shook.

  His hand was callused from years of angling and working the sea. Michael said, “Thanks for stopping by. You have a good day out on the water?”

  “Pretty fair. Nobody got skunked. And right about now they’re telling anyone who will listen how they had a whale on the end of their line, but it got away.”

  “I once caught a fish this big.” Michael stretched his arms out wide, before bringing his hands almost together.

  “I have a T-shirt with those words written on it. My kids say I’m impossible to shop for, so they always get me one fishing shirt or another. Some of them my wife doesn’t let me wear.”

  Michael didn’t reference his own wife. As he had done during his visit to the Emerald Hideaway, he’d put away his wedding ring in order to better work his story.

  “The reason I stopped by was to get some information about hosting a party on your boat.”

  “A fishing party?”

  “The fishing wouldn’t be as much the priority, as would the partying. You see, my brother is getting married, and I’ve been put in charge of his bachelor party. There will be about twenty-five of us. We’ll want a booze cruise with some extras.”

  “Extras?”

  “The guys want me to get some strippers.”

  Moss began shaking his head. “I won’t be able to help you there, son. I know this area has the reputation for being a crazy spring break hot spot, but that’s not the kind of business me and my cr
ew cater to.”

  “Is that just your boat, or is it all the party boats in this marina?”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to find that kind of a charter here.”

  “Any suggestions on where I could find it?”

  The captain’s formerly accommodating attitude turned dismissive. “I’d try one of the other marinas in town.”

  As Moss walked by him, Michael said, “I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir, and I certainly didn’t mean to insult you. If I had a choice in the matter, I’d be all for pole fishing instead of pole dancing, but a couple of the guys are insisting on strippers.”

  The apology was enough to make Moss pause. “No offense taken. And it’s not as if that kind of business doesn’t go on around here. In fact, I just had a fishing charter where I overheard some of the guys talking about a sunset party cruise that was in the works with girls from a local strip club.”

  “You happen to remember which strip club it was? I know Panama City doesn’t have a shortage of nudie bars.”

  “Sorry.”

  Michael tried to keep him talking. “Was this a recent charter?”

  “Four, five days ago.”

  “Out-of-towners, I bet?”

  The captain nodded. “They were in this area doing some kind of military recruiting.”

  “Different kind of fishing,” Michael said.

  “A much more lucrative kind. I got paid in cash. Rock said they were celebrating a very successful recruiting trip.”

  “Rock?”

  “That’s what the others called him. That, and General.”

  Michael did his best not to react. The name was likely just a coincidence, he thought. Still, hearing the name “Rock” had him curious, as did the man’s being addressed with a military title.

  “Not to be pushy, but I’m wondering if you could provide me with the contact information from that charter. I’d be curious about their experience with that party boat.”

  “No can do,” said Moss, his answer abrupt and suspicious.

  Michael held up his hands in a posture of surrender. “Completely understood. I’m just trying to navigate this whole bachelor party thing.”

  “Like I said, I can’t help you with that. But I will give you my opinion on the matter, son. I’d be thinking more about your brother’s future wife than his friends. You don’t want to do anything that might cause trouble between your brother and his bride-to-be. I’m speaking from the experience of having been married for almost forty years.”

  “That sounds like good advice.”

  “Don’t mean to sermonize, but my wife is always telling me I shouldn’t only be a fisherman, but a fisher of men, like it says in the Good Book.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me,” Michael said.

  “Not that I’m what you’d call a regular churchgoer. I always tell my wife that it’s better to sit in a boat thinking about God, than sit in a church thinking about fishing.”

  “I like that.”

  “It’s on one of my T-shirts,” the man confessed.

  Then he made one more confession. “If you’re still inclined to find entertainment, you might ask around the Suncoast Marina. Seems to me a friend once mentioned a special kind of trawling takes place on a yacht that he called the ‘melon boat.’”

  “Much obliged,” Michael said.

  XXII

  Even though the cruise control was on and set to seventy-six miles per hour, which was one mile over the speed limit along Interstate 40, JJ still eyed the speedometer. Yes, he confirmed, they were traveling at 76 mph. If anything, that was slowpoke speed along this stretch of the highway, but you could never be too careful, especially when you were carrying contraband.

  The two men had driven nonstop except to fill up. The sooner they delivered their cargo, the better it would be.

  With that thought came some muffled sounds from deep inside the Chevy Suburban’s camper. Not good, he thought.

  JJ turned to his right. Keebler was asleep in the passenger seat, as he had been since they’d last stopped for gas. Damn Keebler could sleep anywhere. JJ’s associate had the face of one of the Keebler elves: big cheeks, big ears, and a doughy expression. His resemblance to the elves ended there. Keebler was a big guy. His talent wasn’t in making cookies; he was good at hurting people.

  “Hey, Keebler. Wake up.”

  The man blinked a few times, then gave him a non-elf-like scowl. Keebler didn’t like having his sleep interrupted, but what he liked even less was waking up to someone calling him by his nickname.

  JJ said, “I need you to keep your eyes open for a quiet place to pull over. It’s time for you to play doctor with our cargo.”

  “Shit. Let’s just pull over and get it done.”

  They were about fifty miles east of Flagstaff. Around them was Arizona high desert country mostly devoid of any towns or structures.

  “I’m not just pulling over on the shoulder. That would be an invitation for any curious cop to stop and talk.”

  Keebler pointed to a sign and said, “Meteor Crater, next exit.”

  “You think it’s a good idea for you to play doc in the middle of some tourist attraction?”

  “I go in the back, I shoot her up,” Keebler said. “No fuss, no muss. And maybe we take a look at that meteor.”

  “It’s no meteor. It’s a big hole in the ground where a meteor struck.”

  “That’s all that’s there? A hole in the ground?”

  “It’s like a mile wide. It’s what they call an impact crater.”

  “Lucky me, that I get to travel with Dr. Science,” Keebler said.

  A third voice entered the conversation, a moan finding its way out of the confines of the cargo hold. JJ didn’t want to admit it, but there was something spooky about hearing the woman’s disembodied voice.

  “Get the dose ready. We’re no more than five hours from Vegas. Let’s play it safe and make sure she’s out of it for the next eight hours.”

  Sighing, Keebler reached into the glove compartment and took out a medical traveling pouch. He unzipped it, revealing syringes and vials. Keebler started going through the vials, studying the different dosages.

  “Not too much, but not too little. I’m sure MM is going to want to meet his new friend tonight, and he won’t want her all drugged up.”

  “If you’re so concerned with it being just right, Goldilocks,” Keebler said, “maybe you should be playing doctor instead of me.”

  “Take it easy. I’m just trying to spare you from getting on MM’s bad side. But if you don’t care about that, do whatever you want.”

  MM was their employer, Max Miller—or at least that was their explanation for the acronym if others were around. But the truth of the matter was that MM was an abbreviation for something else. Moon Man. There was some history that came with that nickname.

  Mentioning MM made Keebler look around uneasily. “We’re not looking at the next full moon for another couple weeks, right?”

  “We’re good. We’re entering the waning gibbous cycle.”

  JJ liked saying things like waning gibbous and waxing crescent. Then again, knowing the phases of the lunar cycle allowed them to be forewarned.

  “Thought so,” said a relieved Keebler.

  MM did not stand for Max Miller as much as it did for Moon Man. Both of the men had worked for their employer long enough to be convinced his psyche—and his madness—could be tied to the lunar cycle. Their boss’s behavior became more and more erratic with the approach of the full moon.

  One could go so far as to say their Moon Man was a true lunatic.

  “Twenty-three more days until the next full moon,” JJ said.

  Both men exhaled some pent-up air. Each of them was exceedingly well paid for their work, but for a few days every month it meant walking around on eggshells and trying to keep their boss from being totally bonkers.

  “Sign says there’s a rest stop at Meteor Crater,” Keebler said.

  JJ
blew out a little more air. “We’ll pull over and see what it looks like. But it’s a no-go if there’s anyone nearby.”

  He raised his nose, did some sniffing, and thought he detected an acrid odor. “You’re also going to need to change her Depends.”

  “Shit,” Keebler said.

  XXIII

  Nathan Bines made the rounds of the Brookhaven Ballroom in Atlanta’s exclusive and private Capital City Country Club. His firm was sponsoring a weekend getaway for a select group of invited guests, and Bines was working the room, his silky and polished behavior embodying noblesse oblige. The smile on his face suggested he was having a great time. His smile lied. The only reason for Bines’s being there was to serve the interests of his publicity-shy client. Over the course of the last decade, that same client had come to expect more and more of Bines. There was a time when he would have eschewed this kind of behavior and manipulation, but now it just seemed easier to capitulate to his client’s demands. He kept drawing imaginary lines in the sand that he believed he wouldn’t cross, and then did so.

  It would stop. That’s what he told himself. But not today. He exerted his will upon his face, growing his smile. At least he was the only one who could hear his teeth grinding.

  Even though Bines lived most of the year in Manhattan, he was spending most of his time these days renting in Atlanta while working on the Welcome Mat Hospitality case. His firm had twelve offices nationally and another half dozen internationally. Bines had earned a spot as one of the names on his law firm’s letterhead. The weekend function was ostensibly being paid for by the firm, but a certain benefactor was subsidizing most of the costs, just as he was the legal fees associated with the Welcome Mat case.

  Bines circled like a shark, making an incremental approach to his fish. That was the primary reason for his being there. The client who could not be named—sort of like Voldemort—had insisted upon this backchannel meeting. Judge Allen Irwin was Bines’s target. Their crossing paths had to look as if it was aboveboard. That would be good for all concerned. As expected, the judge had declined the weekend activities of golfing and meetings, wanting to avoid any notion of conflicts of interest with Bines or his firm. If he was ever questioned, the judge’s attending the reception could be explained away as being nothing more than a common courtesy extended to one of Atlanta’s preeminent law firms.