Inhuman Trafficking

by Mike Papantonio

You first, asshole. That’s what she should have said. But she’d been too scared.

  But not today. “You bastard!” she screamed.

  She had to find a way to kill Max. And it had to happen now, before the full moon. Max wasn’t a big man, but he was strong and outweighed her by at least sixty pounds. Still, there had to be something she could use against him.

  Music suddenly filled the room; some guy began singing about being followed by a moon shadow. Max was responding to what she had yelled. The perv had been watching her, had been listening.

  “Asshole,” she said.

  Lily needed to think. There was something about the song that gave her pause. It wasn’t the music or the words, but the way the song had materialized. That wasn’t anything new. Max had watched her and reacted to what he’d seen. It was just another one of his games. But for some reason this detail seemed important, even if Lily couldn’t figure out why. To the rest of the world, she was a ghost. In the cell of his making, she couldn’t be seen. Only he was able to see her, listen to her.

  In her jail, the song played on, the singer speaking of lights and shadows.

  The answer was out there. It was like a spark in her head; she tried to breathe life into it. The inkling grew, becoming a possibility, a glimmer.

  All this time she had run from her nightmare, but Lily realized she could no longer do that. If she was to have any hope of surviving, she had no choice but to embrace her nightmare. Believe in it even. In the nights leading up to this full moon, her lunatic jailer had spent an increasing amount of time standing in front of her bedroom window. It was as if he was drawn to the moonlight. But it was more than that. He had positioned himself at the window so that he could intently listen to what was beyond. A voice or voices talked to him, voices only he could hear. And it wasn’t a one-way conversation. Mad Max talked back.

  Her jailer spoke to the moonlight, or maybe even to the damn Man in the Moon. And according to what she had overheard, the two of them were conspiring to kill her.

  Lily needed to become part of that conversation.

  And the singer sang, “Moon shadow, moon shadow.”

  XLII

  Michael turned away from his computer screen to look at the display on his cell phone. Jake was calling. It had only been twenty-four hours since he’d won his motion for expedited discovery, but he was already hard at work preparing for his deposition of Vicky Driscoll. At Michael’s request, Jake had driven over to the Pussy Cat Palace to take exterior pictures of the property and make discreet inquiries on his behalf.

  “Find any new dirt on Driscoll?” Michael asked.

  “Plenty of dirt’s being turned up here, but I don’t think it’s the kind you were hoping for. Were you aware that the Pussy Cat Palace was shut down for remodeling?”

  “I was not,” Michael said. He didn’t like the sound of what he was hearing. “When did this happen?”

  “From what I’ve been able to gather, the club’s been closed for almost two weeks.”

  Michael doubted that was a coincidence. He’d been so absorbed in his work that all he’d been thinking about was getting the chance to put Driscoll on the hot seat.

  “What’s going on there now?” Michael asked.

  “There is a small crew inside the building doing some demolition. I asked to talk to the foreman, but there wasn’t one around. The crew working the site are Spanish-speaking day laborers, and they weren’t inclined to talk to this gringo.”

  “Is there signage posted with a construction firm or contact number?”

  “Negative. There’s only a piece of cardboard with the scrawled message, Closed for Remodeling.”

  Michael got up from his seat and started pacing. “Were you able to get inside to see what’s going on?”

  “That wasn’t a problem. I walked in, and when no one challenged me I took pictures, which I’ll be sending to you after our call. They’ve gutted walls and torn down drywall. The place is full of drop cloths, pails and trays, and industrial-sized containers of paint and paint thinner.”

  “I need you to do me another favor,” Michael said, then made his request.

  “I’m on it,” Jake said.

  Michael started making calls. His first was to the Pussy Cat Palace. After ten rings, he hung up. The strip club’s telephone number was still operational, but no message had been left alerting clients to the ongoing remodel.

  His next call was to BB Wolf, but Michael was told by the receptionist that the lawyer was out of the office. He left a callback number. Maybe the lawyer had a reasonable explanation for what his client was up to.

  As promised, Jake sent him pictures of the construction site. As he studied them, Michael kept wondering about the timing of the remodel. He thought about calling Deke and getting his take on the situation, but decided to wait on how matters developed.

  An hour later, Jake called back. “You were right about your suspicions.”

  Michael had hoped he’d be wrong. He had asked Jake to go on a scouting expedition to the Emerald Hideaway.

  “There are no longer any H2B workers at the hotel,” Jake said. “I talked to one maid who told me she was a recent hire. She said that starting two weeks ago, lots of temps were brought in to work. Since then, some workers have been offered permanent jobs, including her.”

  “Which means the old employees aren’t returning. Which also means they’re probably back in Ukraine.”

  “That’s my take on it.”

  “Dammit. Driscoll jettisoned all her H2B workers and all our potential witnesses. I never saw this coming.”

  “It’s not like you could have anticipated it.”

  “And yet I should have.”

  * * *

  Vicky was enjoying being out in her Mercedes CLS coupe. She was feeling like her old self. How did that American saying go? Oh, yes, if life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

  A spa day was just what she needed. It had been too long since she had pampered herself. She would start with a massage, then have a body wrap. After that she’d exfoliate with a salt scrub, followed by a manipedi. Her hair appointment wasn’t until midafternoon, which would leave plenty of time for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

  No, not tea, she thought. I’ll have a lemonade instead.

  Everything had worked out as planned. Now that her workers were back in Ukraine, a great burden had been lifted from her. Peter Stone had made it easy for her to be rid of them. They had left with plenty of money in their pockets, far more than they would have earned otherwise. There certainly had been no complaints from them.

  Or from her. She was doing quite well by this new arrangement. Stone had decided the easiest thing to do was throw money at the problems to have them go away. He had even come up with the idea of remodeling the club. Better yet, he had agreed to pay for the work so as to allow her time to find new employees. The Pussy Cat Palace had always been a dump, but a very profitable dump. When the construction was done, it would look like a high-class club.

  Stone could certainly afford the payouts. Vicky had done some research on him. It seemed he had become quite wealthy in the aftermath of America’s Middle Eastern wars. His profiteering hadn’t resulted just from the deploying of his mercenary army. The persistent rumor was that a not insubstantial portion of twelve billion dollars in cash, pal-lets of shrink-wrapped hundred-dollar bills, which the American government had sent over to help with Iraq’s reconstruction, had fallen into Darkpool hands. Stone had greatly prospered from their spoils of war.

  A lack of American governmental oversight had also allowed Vicky to get rich, but not nearly as rich as Stone had grown from his private military contracting. Of course, she hadn’t had billions of dollars fall off of some truck right into her lap. But she wasn’t complaining. Things had turned out just fine for her in the end.

  There was still the lawyer to deal with, but Vicky had been assured there was little to worry about on that end, especially now that her workers had returned to Ukraine. Mr.
Wolf had told her that it was likely he would be able to settle the case before she was even questioned by that lawyer who was suing her. The idea of a settlement was fine with her, especially as she wouldn’t have to pay—how did the Americans say it?—a thin dime.

  Her benefactor Peter Stone would pay.

  Karma, she thought, is a beautiful boomerang. It was now rewarding her with lots of his money. And whether Stone knew it or not, there were more debts he would yet pay. Sucking him dry was now something to look forward to.

  The sudden jolt to her car threw Vicky forward. She hit her brakes, looked in her rearview mirror, and saw the cause of the collision. An old woman with huge glasses was driving a hulking old Cadillac, a car much too big for her. The crone’s head could barely be seen over the dashboard.

  “Bitch,” Vicky cursed.

  Florida was said to have more elderly drivers than anywhere else in the world, and Vicky was of the opinion that most of them should have had their licenses taken away long ago. Why the hell did these antiques still insist upon driving?

  Vicky signaled to the right. Luckily for her, it was a quiet stretch of road. The old bitch responded in kind, moving to the side in what appeared to be slow motion, like a turtle. It would take forever for the old lady to get out of her car.

  An impatient Vicky muttered, “Shit.” Unlike grandma, she didn’t have time to waste. And she wasn’t going to let this fossil ruin her spa day. Maybe luck was with her and her bumper had gone unscathed.

  Vicky got out of her car, slamming her door in fury. Scowling, she walked to the back. Seeing the damage made Vicky throw up her arms. There was a dent to her rear bumper, as well as a broken taillight. From behind her, Vicky heard a window being lowered. She expected the woman to start profusely apologizing. That’s not what she got.

  In a raspy voice, the old buzzard said, “You shouldn’t have slowed down.”

  What the hell? The crazy old bitch was trying to blame her for the accident. Vicky stomped toward the Cadillac. If she had her way, the old lady would never drive again. The cops would get an earful. She’d tell them to take her in for reckless driving. Maybe they’d even strip search grandma. That would serve her right.

  Vicky opened her mouth to lay into her, but then noticed something odd. The old woman didn’t look quite right. She was hunched down in her seat and wasn’t nearly as small as she had appeared in the rearview mirror. In fact, she looked positively imposing. That probably had something to do with the gun she was holding in her hand.

  Too late, Vicky noticed something else. The old woman wasn’t a woman. She was a man in a white wig.

  “Don’t move,” he said, his voice deep and threatening.

  Vicky held her hands up as if complying, but then turned and started running toward her car. She didn’t get far. The driver wasn’t alone. A hidden passenger jumped out of the car and sprinted after Vicky. He tackled her from behind, then began dragging her back to the Cadillac.

  No one saw Vicky disappear; no one heard her screams.

  XLIII

  Lily stepped toward her bedroom window. Normally, she didn’t get that close to the glass, but this time she walked into the light of the full moon. Minutes passed. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t move, but then she suddenly recoiled and held her hand to her chest.

  “Who’s there! What do you want?”

  She swiveled her head around as if searching for something, her expression bewildered. Clearly there was nothing there. But then she started a second time and took a step back from the window.

  “Who are you? Where are you?”

  Lily raised her trembling hands up to her mouth; her breaths were rapid and loud.

  “What?” she said. “That’s crazy.”

  She said nothing for a few moments, the expression on her face turning from fright to incredulity. Lily began shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I don’t know what your game is, asshole, but I’m not buying it.”

  Something seemed to make her reconsider. Whatever it was made her jaw drop. After a few moments of listening, Lily said, “This is some weird shit.”

  Her face and body showed the conflicting impulses of flight or fight. Curiosity won out. As she inched toward the window, her attention was directed to something outside the glass.

  “I’m listening, but this whole thing is crazy.”

  A minute or two passed, and Lily’s body language transformed. The fear and uncertainty on her face and features gradually retreated; she began nodding. Occasionally she blurted out, “Really?” Mostly, though, she listened intently to whatever was being said.

  And then there was another voice, this one directly behind her. “What is it? What is he saying?”

  Lily didn’t jump or start, didn’t even turn around to acknowledge Max’s presence. But she did shush him.

  Max wasn’t deterred. “What has he been telling you?”

  “Shh!” she hissed again.

  “I need to know.”

  From the corner of her mouth Lily hissed, “Shut the hell up.” Then she turned back to the window. “No, no, not you. Don’t go. Stay! Please.” Lily did her pleading to something beyond the window. “He won’t interrupt us anymore.”

  She could feel Max’s hot breath on her neck, but didn’t acknowledge it. All her focus was directed to the moonlight. As the minutes passed, she uttered the occasional “oh wow” and “you’re shitting me,” laughing a few times and frequently shaking her head in wonderment. Here and there, she voiced cryptic words of agreement, and consternation, and encouragement.

  Max decided he’d been patient for long enough. “Tell me,” he said.

  “When he’s finished,” she hissed.

  * * *

  He was not finished for some time. At first, Max abided by her directive, but as the hours passed, he began shifting around, with his muttering growing louder.

  Lily pretended not to notice him. To appearances, she was trans-fixed by something else. But inside she was agonizing, torn about what she should do next. Should she try and drive her fingernails into Max’s eyeballs? Or should she continue with her pretense?

  Stay with the plan, she decided. Every moment that passed brought her closer to dawn. A trickle of sweat dropped from her forehead. She forced herself to take long, regular breaths. Lily believed the only reason she was still alive was that Max had been waiting for the full moon to perform his sacrifice. That hadn’t happened, but the night wasn’t yet over.

  If she could just hang on. Her fervor to live surprised her. There had been too many times over the past year when she had all but welcomed death. She had imagined it would be a relief, an escape from the grunting and thrusting of angry men. But that was no longer the escape she wanted. She wanted to go home and have her mother hold her in her arms.

  Mom.

  That thought, the need, was so strong that Lily wondered if she’d said the word aloud, and found herself involuntarily drawing her head back. The predator, ever ready to pounce, noticed.

  “What is it?” he said.

  It was time, she thought. But faced with the moment, the fear almost froze her.

  “Thanks a lot,” Lily said with the kind of sarcasm perfected by girls her age. “He’s gone now, because of all your interrupting. At least he mostly finished with his story.”

  “Tell me what he said.”

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  “You were in the way.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t even know where to start. And I don’t have all that music and shit for sound effects.”

  Max’s hand shot out, gripping her by the shoulder, his long thumb-nail driving into her flesh. “What music?”

  “Get your damn paw off me.” She pulled back and rubbed where he’d clawed her. “How in the hell do you expect me to describe music, dude? It wasn’t like angels with harps, or any shit like that. It was like nothing I’ve ever heard. It was like the universe was humming, and I wanted to be part of that chorus. I don’t know how you
didn’t hear it.”

  “You spent all that time listening to music?” His words were hard, suspicious, just shy of violent.

  “Like, no. The music was just part of his story.”

  “Go on.”

  “No way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The story’s crazy. And you’re just looking for an excuse to beat the crap out of me, so why should I tell you what I heard?”

  Which did he want more, to hear her out, or to kill her? She needed a little more time. Max needed the ritual in his ritual sacrifice. Or so she hoped.

  Lily wished she were smarter. But nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment. Or had it? During the past year she had been put into one impossible situation after another, but she was still alive.

  “The story,” Max demanded.

  “All right, but don’t blame me if you don’t like what he said. It’s his story, not mine.”

  Lily took a breath and collected her thoughts. Then she said, “Long ago, when even the universe was young, the Moon asked his mother for a special present.”

  To her ears, that sounded weak and unconvincing. She needed to do better, and fast. Lily didn’t dare to look at Max. It was easier to address the moonbeams. That was her audience anyway. The rays of light were spilling into the room. They were her spotlight. Lily wished she had taken a drama class and been one of the theater kids. They’d banded together in their own clique and gone around reciting their own special language.

  Screw Romeo. Screw Juliet. They couldn’t help her.

  Lily steadied herself. Then she reached for the light and pretended to draw it to her breast. “And the Moon said to his mother, ‘Please make me a jacket, Mama.’”

  Lily moved her hands along the folds of an imaginary jacket, running her fingers along the lapels.

  “Jacket?” Max asked.

  “Not just a jacket. A very special jacket. He said it had to be perfect, and fit him for every occasion.”

  “You’ve kept me waiting all this time to hear some story about a jacket?”

  Lily almost fell to her knees, almost decided to pack it in and give up. But she wasn’t going to let Max win that easily.