Savage code, p.7
Savage Code, page 7
part #4 of The Porter Series
Harsh grabbed his fresh long-sleeved shirt and pulled it on. He didn’t like Osito looking at his tattoos. The club owner was always too interested, like he was studying them for some reason. “No sé.” I don’t know.
“Yeah, well, mi madre was always right. Anyway, you go ahead and get ready, I’ll call you when it’s time.”
“Gracias.”
The club owner smiled. “Of course. You’re my boy, Harsh, that’s why I take care of you.”
The smaller man walked away, and Harsh was left on his own again, which he much preferred. He knew people took him for an idiot, that they commonly underestimated him. He was sure Osito did it as well, and he always thought the man’s smile was fake, and showed too much teeth.
He’d read a book once that said when monkeys show too much teeth in a smile, it was a sign of weakness. Harsh wasn’t sure if it was true, but it had stuck in the back of his head.
Digging into his bag, he pulled out a candle and a box of matches. He lit the candle and set it on the sink, smoke rising from the match as he blew it out. He got onto his knees, closed his eyes, and tried to spend several minutes being thankful for what he had, rather than angry about what he didn’t.
Or what had been taken from him.
He blew the candle out and returned it to his bag. His usual hand wraps weren’t allowed during fights in the club, so he instead pulled out a roll of athletic tape and took his time wrapping his wrist, hands, and knuckles up, expertly weaving the flimsy tape in and out until it had solidified into something that could protect his hands.
Harsh stretched out a bit, then shook his legs.
A club bouncer came into his small room. “You ready?”
Harsh nodded and followed the man. The pair slipped through the big space of the warehouse, through a small door and down a dimly lit hallway. There was a roar as he got closer to the far door, and Harsh knew exactly what it was.
People.
Some cheering, excited to watch him fight, others talking among themselves. Everyone ready to see what would happen today, when a new challenger thought he’d show up and take the champ out. All the noise, pomp, and circumstance.
Harsh hated it.
In his chest he knew when the time was close. More than butterflies or nerves, it was the feeling of being trapped in a ring with another human being. Ever since he’d gotten out, he hated being locked up. There was nothing that made him more uneasy. In fact, he’d rather not fight at all.
But Osito paid—not always well, but always in cash. It was nearly impossible to find a straight job; not many people wanted to hire someone with Harsh’s record. So he endured the insults and jokes from Osito and his men.
Harsh pushed the door open and stepped into the makeshift, two-story arena. The bottom floor was concrete, with people crowded around a circle made of chain-link fencing. Above, on the metal catwalk that hung from the ceiling, more people congregated, spilling their beer and spittle on the crowd below as they yelled and hollered.
Osito was on a bullhorn, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Harsh looked around, then numbly stepped into the chain-link ring, his ears blocking out all of Osito’s prattle.
The club owner stepped to the middle of the ring and motioned for Harsh to meet him. The challenger from the other side stepped forward as well. Harsh had avoided looking at him, not wanting to see the man. Now, as they stood nearly face to face, it was impossible to ignore him.
The man was a little bit taller than Harsh, and nearly as thick. As opposed to the usual mix of Latinos and blacks who had taken up fighting to better their lives, this man was obviously Russian. If his sharp features hadn’t given it away, the large flag tattooed across both pectorals did.
Harsh stared at the man, who looked as if he could breathe fire, his face contorted and angry.
“I said, do you understand the rules,” Osito said, backhanding Harsh in the chest.
Harsh nodded.
“Then touch fists and go back to your corner.”
Harsh stuck his hands out, and the Russian brought a double hammer fist close enough to Harsh’s face that he could feel the wind, and slammed them into the top of Harsh’s fists.
Harsh stepped back to his corner and looked at the man. He was pacing back and forth like a minotaur, swinging mechanical-looking punches out in front of him. Harsh wondered who he was. Wondered what the Russian did, what would possess him to try to fight.
The next thing Harsh heard, amidst all the screaming and yelling of the crowd, was Osito screaming “Fight!” into the bullhorn.
The Russian rushed across the concrete, trying to meet Harsh before he got off the fence. Harsh slipped a big overhand right, then circled behind the man. The Russian turned and stuck several forceful jabs at Harsh, who was much too far away.
Harsh stepped back and planted his feet in the middle of the ring.
The Russian rushed him again, right hand low, ready to windmill it at Harsh’s head. The crafty boxer stepped forward and hit the Russian with a left hook, stopping his momentum.
The Russian blinked several times and answered with a hook of his own, which Harsh dodged. As Harsh slipped past the punch, he hit the man twice in the stomach, near the liver. The Russian dropped his hands to hold his injured belly.
Harsh unleashed a combination—two jabs and a right hand, another hook to the body, then the finisher, an uppercut.
The Russian went stiff as a board, asleep before his body had the good sense to fall down. Harsh stepped back, stone-faced, as the Russian fell to the concrete, smacking the back of his head in the process.
Harsh leaned against the fence and prepared himself. He knew what was coming.
A symphpony of boos rained down on him. The spectators were always angry when his fights were “too easy.” Unless he was bloody and battered, no one felt like they got their money’s worth. Harsh knew this, but couldn’t help himself. The Russian had been such a bad boxer, he hadn’t belonged in the same ring with Harsh.
Not to mention, getting hit in the face hurt.
Harsh walked out of the ring and back down the hallway, the drone of the crowd and Osito’s screaming into the bullhorn lost on his ears.
He went back to the small changing area and cut the tape off his hands, wadding it up and putting it in his bag. Then he washed his face and hands, pausing to cup a small pool of water again.
In the moment he stared at the liquid, the pool went from calm to rippling. He opened his hands and let the water splash, then gathered the rest of his things.
“Come on, man,” a voice from the doorway said. “Why’d you do that so fast?”
Harsh didn’t turn around. He knew there was nothing he could say to Osito that could explain it.
“I swear, you Dominicans are dumb as a box of rocks. Maybe dumber. At least rocks just sit there and don’t cause problems. You got any clue how pissed off the crowd is?”
“Lo siento.” I’m sorry.
“No you’re not, not yet. I swear, one of these days—”
Harsh turned around and stared at Osito. “Una día qué?” One day what?
Osito straightened out his suitcoat. “Don’t you mean mug me, you ugly son of a bitch. Not in my own club. You watch yourself, you hear me?”
Harsh looped the strap of his bag over his shoulder and walked up to Osito. He nodded.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Osito reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a matted and crumpled hundred-dollar bill. He smacked the money into Harsh’s hand. “There.”
Harsh turned the money over. “Dijiste mil.” You said a grand.
“Si, pero si peleas como una mierda, te pagan mierda.”
If you fight like shit, you get paid shit.
Harsh looked at the money, crumpled it tightly in his fist, and pushed past Osito, leaving the man behind.
“Just remember,” Osito called after him, “you fight tomorrow, too. Do better and I’ll pay better.”
Harsh didn’t turn around. He was angry with many things. At the Russian for being such a pushover. At Osito for stiffing him, which was becoming a more regular occurrence.
But mostly he was angry at himself. Because he knew he would be back the next night, knocking out whomever Osito could dig up, hoping he’d get paid.
Fourteen
“So we just call him?”
Porter and Rivera sat on the couch in their hotel room. The numbers on the microwave underneath the television were squarely in the middle of the witching hour, and Porter was trying hard to keep his eyes open. “Yeah.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’ll come up with something.”
“What if he wants to meet right now? What if he doesn’t answer? What if it’s not a real number?”
Porter pulled out his phone. “Let’s find out.”
He dialed the number Daisy had scrawled on his hand. The phone rang twice, then a recording with a woman’s voice picked up:
“Thank you for calling. To complete your order, please leave a message, then go to www-dot-fftn-dot-com. Thank you.”
Porter waited for the beep, then hung up the phone and dropped it on the coffee table and leaned back.
“You didn’t leave a voicemail,” Rivera said as she stood and walked over to the kitchenette counter. She picked up her laptop and then dropped onto the couch again.
“No need. Everyone has caller ID. Besides, if I were nervous about buying an escort, I wouldn’t leave my number. What’s that website?”
Rivera clicked open the browser, then entered the address. “FFTN stands for Fantasy For The Night. Check this out.”
She slid closer to Porter and set the laptop on his legs. On the screen in front of him were dozens of large-font, bolded names. He moved the cursor to “Amelia” and clicked. The next page populated and there were dozens of pictures of the girl, all in various stages of undress. Some wore evening wear so skimpy it would be inappropriate at the Miss America contest; others wore intimate apparel only suitable for boudoir photos. The rest were pictures that would never have been allowed to run in Playboy.
Amelia’s face was blurred in every picture.
“She seems nice,” Porter said.
Rivera smacked him on the arm.
Porter backed out of Amelia’s profile and clicked on “Hyacinth.” There were more pictures, much the same as he’d seen previously. “I think her use of latex is a very artistic choice.”
Rivera stood and paced the small living room. “So these girls are the escorts? What is this site, you just pick them out?”
“That’s usually how it goes. Then we’ll set up an appointment.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, Christina, just like that. You expected it to be harder than that?”
“For some reason, yeah. I did. You know, I’m really glad I never got to work vice. I don’t like this.”
“What did you think we were doing? We're looking for a pimp. Pimps have prostitutes. Just because they use the euphemism ‘escort’ doesn’t make it any less raw, what they do.”
“I guess not.”
“Besides, you should be excited.”
She stopped pacing. “Why the hell would I be excited?”
“The whole reason you want me to help you with Candy Man is to see what he knows, right? Dig up some more cases on people, really look like a rock star to the FBI?”
“Well, yeah, sure.”
“This is a great first step. Look at all these girls.” Porter turned the computer around and scrolled through a list of no fewer than thirty names. “They’re all ammo for your case. I’ll bet some of these girls are underage. Runaways that came to the city and got put to work. Daisy was barely legal, but I’m sure some of these aren’t. Think of the number of cases you can build.”
Rivera nodded. “Yeah, and that’s awesome, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. Seeing women do this to themselves makes me glad I have a son.”
“Some are doing it to themselves. Some aren’t. Lots of different situations.”
“Trafficking?”
“Sure. Maybe not this group, but a huge number of these girls are. There’s no telling.”
Rivera sat down next to Porter. “Makes me sick.”
Porter shrugged, and the two of them scrolled through the website, looking over all the pictures, seeing if there was anything they could learn from them.
The phone woke Porter. He blinked several times and glanced at the clock on the microwave across the room. Nearly four a.m. Rivera was asleep on his arm. He hated to move, but the phone wasn’t going to answer itself. He shrugged free and reached over to the coffee table and answered. Rivera sat up for a moment, then lay the other way, her head on the armrest.
“Yeah.”
“You called for service?” The voice on the other end of the line was a smooth tenor, no trace of an accent. Compared to Porter’s deep rumble, it was like butter.
Porter pulled the phone off his ear and looked at the number displayed on the screen, then at the Sharpie on his hand.
The numbers matched.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Who do you want to see?”
Porter thought back to the pictures and names on the laptop. “Hyacinth.”
“Interesting choice,” the voice said.
“I have a thing for latex and whips.”
“I’m sure.”
“When can we make this happen?” Porter said.
“I need to verify you first.”
“How are you planning to do that?”
“Give me your social media info. I’ll scroll through your pages and see if you are who you say you are,” the voice said.
“I don’t do that shit.”
“Really?”
“Nope. It all bothers me,” Porter said.
“Okay. We also work on references. Give me the name of a girl or agency you’ve worked with before.”
“That’s a problem, because this is my first time,” Porter said.
“We don’t service first-timers.”
Porter thought for a moment. “Do you advertise?”
“Meaning…?”
“Do you put your phone number out there so everyone can see?”
“Do you think I’m an idiot? That would be bad for business.”
“Then how did I get your number?” Porter said. “I must have gotten it from someone who thought I was trustworthy enough to give it to me.”
“And who was this person?”
“I can’t tell you that. I’m good at keeping secrets.”
The voice was quiet for a few moments. “I appreciate discretion. In this case, I’m willing to make an exception to our first-timers rule; however, this comes with a larger service fee.”
“That’s fine, as long as Hyacinth has her whips and chains.”
“She’s open most of the day tomorrow.”
“How about a nooner?”
“Fine. I’ll text you an address. Be there on time. Make sure you come alone and bring your payment with you.”
“Do you take plastic?”
“This really is your first time, isn’t it?” the voice said, and hung up.
Porter set the phone back on the table. He sat for a couple moments, then a text chimed. He looked and saw an address. For several moments, he debated waking Rivera, telling her the developments, and working on a plan for the next day. A strategy, something to ensure that they not only got to meet Camelot Jones, but gained his cooperation as well.
Instead he slowly stood, so as not to wake the sleeping woman. He padded into the master bedroom and climbed into the bed. It was comfortable and he was asleep again in moments.
Fifteen
It was the same dream as always—the house, the fire, the phone. Trish. This time as the flames grew hotter, they were doused by water. Porter’s eyes flew open and he sat up.
He was covered in water. The bed was covered in water. Above stood a smirking Rivera, holding an ice bucket.
“You looked a little too comfortable.”
Daylight streamed through a crack in the thick curtain and Porter shook the last vestiges of the dream from his mind. He pointed to the ice bucket. “People piss in those things.”
“I told you that was my bed.”
“You were asleep on the couch.”
“So? You could have woken me up.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Porter said as he stood up. “Then you would have been mad because I did that.”
“Mind putting some pants on, champ?”
“Hey, you threw water on me. Don’t blame me if you see something you like.”
Rivera made a face. “What’s on the agenda?”
Porter filled her in on the conversation he’d had with the voice while she was asleep.
“So who was on the phone?”
“Had to be Jones,” Porter said.
“You sure? Could be anybody.”
“Could be. Probably not. I guess we’ll find out.”
“Noon’s only an hour from now. Where’s this place at?”
Porter grabbed his phone and gave her the address, and her laptop mapped them a route.
“We need to get moving, unless you want me to fill the bucket up again.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Porter said.
Minutes later, they were out of their room and in Rivera’s sedan. The bright light of day stung Porter’s eyes. The city was as big as ever, and during the day it was alive again. Porter tried not to look up at the buildings.
Rivera rounded the corner and slowed as she did. “Is that it?”
Up ahead, on the corner of Sixtieth and Amsterdam, loomed a sandstone-colored building. It must have been fifty stories tall, and the sides glittered with glass.
“Yeah. That looks right. Just park somewhere.”
“Right, in this city. You think I’ll just be able to grab a—”
Rivera trailed off as a Honda pulled out of a street parking spot in front of a Greek restaurant. She deftly slipped into the spot.
“You were saying?”
