Precious Cargo, page 7
“I know I’m going to end up regretting this.” He reached in his back pocket for another cloth, tossed me the polish. “Help me with the other side while I think, then we’ll go kick some ass.”
I grabbed him and kissed him, mashing my swollen lips against his cold ones. “Oh, you sweet talking man.”
Chapter 9
In theory, it was a nice idea, helping those in trouble. Nice ideas could even be fun, especially if they included an ass kicking.
Gator and I were on the same page with that one. Thing was, you kind of had to know the whereabouts of the bad guys if you were going to kick their ass, or asses, as it were. To further complicate things, we planned on stealing something they probably weren’t willing to part with.
My father was right. I do love the smell of trouble in the morning, and the late afternoon, and also, sometimes right around dinnertime.
We finished with Sabrina, all the while talking through our options, then made our rounds at the truck stop looking for some answers by asking some cryptic questions about brown-haired girls and black cars while flashing twenties. We even hit up party row—the last row in the lot where the security lights were the dimmest and the most lot lizards could be found—but no one was talking. Guess if you’d been banging an under-aged girl in your work truck’s bunk, right under the picture of your wife and kids, you probably wouldn’t be so keen on sharing any particulars. Or maybe because Gator still smelled like cop to them.
We ended up back in the T-shirt and souvenir section of the truck stop store, trying to think of another approach.
“I could tell them she has some horrible disease,” I suggested.
“What if they’re the ones with the disease?” Gator said.
“True that,” I said, with a sigh.
I thought about growing up in Louisiana, hunting with my best friend, Ivory Joe and how I’d thought he knew instinctively where the raccoons would be, every time. Until one day he told me, “It’s not like that, Jojo. We ain’t no smarter than them. You just keep going back to the darkest, nastiest place and eventually you’re going to find them.”
“Hang on,” I told Gator. “I’ll be right back.”
I headed to the ladies room, passing through the empty shower waiting area. The automated scent mister went off as I pushed open the door. As if the sweetness of berries could mask the scent of urine, shit and mold.
If I was a girl who’d been abducted by men, the only place I’d be sure to be alone, even for a minute, would be the restroom. This would be the place to make an attempt at escape—or make a connection.
I checked all four stalls—empty—and clueless. It wasn’t as if I expected a note from Candy to be written neatly on the wall telling me who had her and where they were, but maybe, there was something. I used the toilet, washed my hands and stared at myself in the mirror. The rushing water helped me think, until cold water spurted from the faucet, splashing onto to the front of my pants. “Damnit!” I shook my hands, looking for paper towels.
No dispensers, but there were two high-powered air dryers on the wall by the door. As I dried my hands and my pants, watching my skin ripple under the jets, something caught my eye. A business card had been slipped under the edge of the restroom cleaning log mounted on the back of the door. One side said: T.A.S.T. FORCE We can help! Underneath, there was an easy to remember phone number and email address. The other side said: Truckers Against Sex Traffickers. We have the force to set you free. The message was repeated in several languages. Each time the word free was highlighted in bright yellow. I took a picture of the card with my phone and carefully replaced it, leaving the word help visible.
I found Gator by the snack row. “Nuts or pretzels?” he asked, as I approached.
“Whichever one’s dipped in chocolate,” I said, brushing past him. “Hurry up. I’ll meet you in the truck.”
By the time Gator climbed in and stashed his goodies, I’d pulled up several pages on my laptop searching for information on T.A.S.T. FORCE and any known associations. Their website was professionally done, listed a slew of supporters and links to similar groups and relevant articles.
“Sorry,” Gator said, glancing at the page I had open on my laptop. “There was a long line and a gabby cashier.”
“I noticed that,” I said. “She was about a 40DD kind of gabby, right?”
Gator had the decency to blush. He slid in beside me at the banquette. “What have you got there?”
“Saw this business card in the bathroom.”
I tilted the laptop screen in his direction, scrolled through the T.A.S.T. FORCE website.
“Check it out.”
The numbers were impressive. The group had helped more than two hundred and twenty-five children return home in the last six months. They now ran three halfway houses across the country for adults and families that had been trafficked and were fundraising to build more. They had been instrumental in passing laws which protected those forced into the sex trade from prostitution convictions—that was one of the largest reasons the girls didn’t leave, or ask for help—the fear of getting busted themselves. Life in another kind of jail.
“Jesus, you think this is what happened to Candy?” Gator asked.
“You said yourself, she had no reason to be at that truck stop in California. And now, I see her again here—running from something, someone. What am I supposed to think?”
Gator looked at me and I could see the gears grinding away. “Jojo, this isn’t your fight.”
“Maybe not, but I’m it now.”
Gator shook his head. “Correction. We’re in it. What do you want to do?”
I leaned back, laced my fingers behind my head. “What do you know about coon hunting?”
Six hours later, we were sitting in Esteban’s borrowed Chrysler back in the neighborhood where I’d had my introduction to the bottle throwing bad boys of the Somali Mafia.
“We could have bought two pairs of binoculars, you know?” Gator said, as I tapped his arm indicating it was my turn to search the faces of the boys on the street.
“Now that would be a waste of money. What’s mine is yours, and vice versa,” I said.
“Not sure I ever agreed to that,” Gator mumbled.
I tweaked the focus on the field glasses and zoomed in on three boys in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp. They wore the same colors as our gang banger pals but looked older. I wondered if there was some kind of gangster rule: the kids take the morning crime shift and the older guys get the early evening. It gave a whole new meaning to organized crime.
“Wait,” I said, poking Gator. “There he is!”
Bicycle Boy—minus his bike—approached the group, his baggy shirt billowing behind him. He wore gold sunglasses though it was dark, and a matching chunky necklace. The biggest guy slapped his back and they exchanged a series of complicated fist bumps, as the others peeled off. One jogged across the street, gone in seconds, the other hitched up his pants and sauntered off, cutting through the yard of a dilapidated blue house.
“Wish I could hear what they’re saying,” I said.
“Just watch the body language,” Gator said. “Let me know if you see a weapon.”
I tried to make sense of the bobbing and weaving that Bicycle Boy and the big man were doing, when headlights filled the rear window. I sunk down in the seat as a now familiar black sedan rolled past.
Gator said, “Is that the car from the truck stop?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
The car pulled up beside the two men and the driver’s side window opened a crack. The big man held up a hand. He finished up with Bicycle Boy, slapping him again on the back—hard enough to make him flinch, then pushed him in the direction of the blue house.
A few minutes later, two girls came out of the house, escorted by Bicycle Boy. They stumbled across the cracked sidewalk to the waiting car. Big Man opened the back door of the black sedan and helped them in, shoving each one a little harder, pinching the last one’s butt through her short skirt making her yelp. My fingers tightened on the binoculars as Bicycle Boy slid in beside the girls and the Big Man got in the front.
“Did you get the license plate?” Gator asked as they pulled away.
“Too dark,” I said with a sigh, lowering the binoculars, slumping in the seat.
“Strange,” Gator said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Was it just me, or did they look the same?”
“What do you mean?”
“The girls. Light skin, dark hair, same clothes—like a costume, or a uniform.”
“I guess, but not school uniforms, right?” I pushed myself upright, searching Gator’s face. “They’re older than that. They’ve got to be.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud. I mean, either one of them could have been Candy—”
“That wasn’t her,” I said. “I’d know.”
“All right,” he said, patting my arm, like I was his Granny upset about the quality of her creamed corn. “All I was saying was that they look similar, you know?”
“And all I’m saying is looking a certain way doesn’t mean—wait a minute. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Gator grinned. “Well, these aren’t rocket scientists we’re dealing with. If two dark-haired, light-skinned, uniform-wearing girls came out of that house…”
“There might be other girls in there, too,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
Chapter 10
Clouds moved across the sky. The chill had returned, reminding me we were in Oklahoma City, a place that obeyed no laws of nature.
Crouching on a crumbled sidewalk in possibly the shittiest part of town, spying on gangsters, I was getting more pissed off by the minute. First dealing with those assholes, getting beat up as a result, then being put out of work because of the trailer repair, topped off by having to endure a crappy, mushy dinner. And now, being made to wait and watch and wait some more? It was too much for anyone, much less a Boudreaux.
Gator whispered, “Hey,” then pointed, indicating the path of the clouds toward the full moon.
I adjusted my crouch, knees and thighs complaining louder than the voice in my head. Before the clouds could move to provide cover, I stood up, shook out my legs and traipsed across the street, in the light of the moon. That’s right, I traipsed, the whole time muttering, fuck this.
Gator ran after me, catching up just as I crashed through the front door of the blue house shoulder first and ran in, gun arm locked, shouting, “Get down motherfuckers!”
In hindsight, it was a pretty stupid thing to do, and the motherfucker line? That didn’t seem to help.
In my head, I’d figured the element of surprise would be enough. Well, that and the guns. I didn’t figure on the door slamming into a very large, very black, and now very angry shirtless man, with a pretty badass gun of his own.
He grabbed my arm, twisted until I dropped my weapon, then spun me around and bent me backward in a chokehold as Gator stepped through the doorway, a second too late.
Even in the dim light of a single hanging bulb, there was no mistaking my compromised position and the two approaching armed gangbangers. Everyone knows knives beat guns in close quarters.
Gator gently laid down his gun and raised his hands as they grabbed him.
Behind me, Mr. Beefy contracted his equally beefy arm, squeezing my throat. An odor came off him like ham and overcooked beans, or maybe it was just sweat, desperation and cheap cologne. He was three times my size and even if most of it was fat, he knew how to leverage his weight. The pressure on my neck was probably only a quarter of what the guy was capable of. When I relaxed my upper body and stopped struggling, his grip eased up. I locked in on Gator’s face, sending him telepathic messages to stand down, be cool, to watch me, and please, please follow my lead.
“Can I say something?” I squeaked out. The pressure on my neck loosened even more.
The guys holding Gator, knives at the ready, glanced over their shoulders at me. One wore a T-shirt with a skull on it, the other’s shirt bore an image of crossbones on a tombstone.
My captor readjusted his hold with a final jerk, popping me under the chin with his elbow, snapping my teeth together with a loud thonk. He slid his grip from throat to collarbone, grabbing my wrists behind my back in one of his massive hands, tugging hard until I grunted.
The guys with Gator chuckled. Crossbones snapped his knife shut and picked up Gator’s gun. He looked at the Glock, stroked the shaft, then traced the air around Gator, moving the gun from head to heart to crotch and back again. The show was part threat and part stupid—the more loosely you held a gun, even if you thought you were in a controlling position—the more opportunity you gave someone to relieve you of said gun.
In the meantime, his buddy in the skull shirt stood there smiling stupidly, angling his knife blade to catch the light from the ceiling bulb and throw it in my eyes. I knew that trick as well as I knew that knife.
He stared at me, squinting then said, “Hey, I know you. You the bitch that ran over Hollywood’s bike.”
It could have gone so much smoother, so much nicer, so much easier, if he’d just left the bitch out of it. I squirmed, and Beefy’s grip tightened.
Crossbones let out a sound that was part pig call, part pubescent boy. His voice matched when he said, “You in deep shit, man. Both of you.”
Gator grinned. “We’re in deep shit? I don’t think so. Why don’t you tell us where Hollywood went and we’ll let you get back to…whatever it is you were doing.”
Skull Shirt said. “Even if I did know where he went, I wouldn’t you, motherfucker.”
“Fine, Gator said. “Just let her go and I’ll stay here and wait for him. Have a little sit down, apologize for the misunderstanding, see what we can work out.”
“Gator, don’t—”
Mr. Beefy cut me off tugging me backwards, twisting my wrists, hard. I could feel him sweating on my back, feel him tiring against my straining. I gave him the false illusion that I was weakening also, dropping my shoulders, leaning against him.
Gator said, “What if I told you that I know your boy? That I know he’s with two of your girls, right now?”
Crossbones piped up with his high voice, his foreign accent and properly worded speech. It was not what you’d expect to hear coming from a guy dressed like he was, standing in a house like this.
He said, “What is it that you know about these girls?”
“More than I’m telling you,” Gator said. “I have business with Hollywood, not you. So, who was that in the black car? Where’d they go?”
Mr. Beefy finally smelled the coffee. He leaned in and shouted next to my ear, “We ain’t got to tell you that. We ain’t got to tell you shit.”
I quickly figured out who was the brains and who was brawn of this outfit. I said, “Don’t be a pepper, Gator.”
“What the fuck? You talking about?” Beefy said.
“Who’s she calling a pepper?” Skull Shirt asked.
“Come on, you never heard that joke?” I said, forcing a laugh.
The boys, one on each side of Gator, stared, stone-faced.
“We do not like the jokes,” Crossbones said.
“Yeah, but we like cutting people,” Skull Shirt said, spinning his knife—my knife, the one they had stolen from me this morning—jabbing it into the cloying air.
“Wait,” Beefy said. “I like jokes. Go on,” he said, tipping his chin to me.
“Ok,” I said, smiling, and catching Gator’s eye. I twisted toward Beefy, forcing him to loosen his grip and asked, “What’s a nosy pepper do?”
Beefy leaned in, his face crinkled up in thought.
Not wanting to cost him the loss of another brain cell, I put on my best Spanish accent and yelled as I broke his hold, “Gets jalapeño business!”
Esteban would have been proud of my smooth dancer-like moves, the way I stomped with my left foot, crushing Beefy’s toes, met the forward motion of his pained face with the high, tight back swing of my skull, then spun into his huge body, regaining my arms and hands, only to slam my fist in his wide nose while raising my knee to deliver the final blow to his testicles—a dangling mass of nerve center and pride—his business calmly resting beneath baggy gym shorts.
It’s true; the bigger they are, the harder they fall.
It is also true; the more pissed off they will be when they get back up again.
I didn’t have to wait for Mr. Beefy to rise and take revenge. His moans and curses had drawn the attention of a wild-haired girl with a baseball bat. Instinct took over. I pulled out my best Matrix-like moves, ducking and dodging, leaping as the bat swished empty air finally connecting with the swollen crotch of the rising Mr. Beefy.
As he went down for the second time, howling like a wild animal, the girl screamed and dropped the bat. “I’m sorry, Big Abdi! I’m sorry!” A skeletal girl crawled toward us, her pale nude body caught by the light of the bare bulb above our heads. She kneeled beside the man, stroking his back as he rocked and moaned, both hands on his genitals. Too little, too late.
While I’d been showing off, Gator had regained his Glock with a knuckle to the eye socket, elbow to the back of the neck move, then treated the other guy to The Gator Special: pointy knee to slack jaw, with a roundhouse follow through.
As I felt around on the floor for my Springfield XD-40, I heard a moan from the corner of the room. Using the flashlight on my phone I followed the sound, the beam of light panning the room, stopping on a nude, dark-haired girl curled into the fetal position on a mattress on the floor.
“Oh shit. Gator? Little help here?”
Gator stripped off his jacket, wrapped the girl in it and lifted her as easily as if she were a toddler. We stepped over the unconscious bodies and hurried to the car. Gator put her in the backseat beside me before he fired up the engine and U-turned us out of there.
I pushed her hair out of her face and raised her chin to the light. “Candy? You’re going to be okay.”
