Luthecker (12 page)

In the end it didn’t matter what he had to say, because she had made up her mind that she wasn’t going back to New York. Her brother’s plan was a good one for right now, and for the first time in a long time, she would take some time for herself. Although the bulk of her wealth had been wiped out, she still had enough in savings to last well over a year, especially if she and Ben shared a modest two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica.

She did a final once over in the mirror, picked up her small black Gucci purse, and walked out into the living room, stilettos clicking audibly on the hardwood.

She carefully sat down on the couch, and checked her watch: 11:38pm. Her brother would be home any minute. She considered picking up the remote and turning on the TV when she heard keys in the door. She stood up as Ben entered the apartment, and when he saw her, he stopped in his tracks.

“Holy. Shit.” He said, as he looked her over.

“What do you think? Dolled up strong enough?” She replied with a smile.

“You look amazing, Sis. My friends are gonna die when they see you.”

He removed the hanging remnants of the black bow tie from around his neck, part of the requisite tuxedo uniform of his employment.

“Give me a few minutes to change, and we’ll roll out. We’re gonna have a blast. It’s gonna be crazy.” He said as he made his way to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

She paced a bit as she waited, realizing now that she was actually quite nervous. She hadn’t been out to a bar, as a single woman, in a long time.

“What’s this place we’re going to called?” She asked, loud enough for him to hear.

“Club Sutra.” He yelled back from behind the bedroom door.

• • •

Vincent Wolfe sat behind the wheel of his Dodge Charger, staring at his partner.

“You look like an ape.”

Marcus Stern ignored the comment as he checked out his visage in the rear view mirror, adjusting his gel enforced fauxhawk hair do. He had changed out of his standard Coalition Assurance issued suit and jacket, and instead now wore five hundred dollar dark blue Armani dress jeans, perfectly polished black Kenneth Cole loafers, and a dark Maroon high thread count silk shirt. He put one last hair in place before turning to his partner.

“Stay in the car. You’re a bit too old for canvassing these spots, and no one is going say shit to you any way. You’re like a spy. If I come up with anything, I’ll shoot you a text.”

Wolfe rolled his eyes, checked his watch. 11:41pm. He looked out across the street, to the long line of twenty-something girls struggling to stay upright in their high heels and skimpy dresses. They all stood around chatting, checking cell phone text messages, and flirting with the better-looking boys in line. The line itself led to where they all wanted to get to, a roped off building entry with a large man guarding it, all beneath a large neon sign that read “IVAR”.

“You just want to hit the clubs, and chicken hawk the ladies.”

“And?”

“And it’s a waste of time.”

“You’re just pissed that you’re an old fart who’s gotta stay outside. But hey, you want to keep pissing off gangbangers and harassing homeless guys in the morning, be my guest.”

“Our guy is not a night club guy.”

“You’d be surprised. Every twenty-five year old man likes pussy. Look, I go in, I make a few friends, I ask around, I tell them I’m looking for my brother. Maybe show them a picture of Luthecker, if it feels right. They’re all liquored up and chatty, maybe somebody knows somebody who knows somebody who knows him. It’s worth a shot.”

Wolfe grabbed a piece of paper from the case file, read off a list of names.

“Ivar? “Deep?” “Pink Taco?” “Club Sutra?” “Wet Kitty?”

He put the paper down and looked at his partner.

“Who the hell names these things? And how in the hell did you find them?”

“The internet. Goth sites, Rave sites. Asking around UCLA and USC campuses. These are the hot spots. Look, we tried your way, searching the gutter, now lets try mine, the clubs.”

Stern pushed opened the passenger door, climbed out.

“Half an hour. Then we move on.” Wolfe yelled out as Stern slammed the door behind him, crossed the street, and made for the long line outside of the club.

MISSION TO NEW YORK

“R
ight. Front.” Alex said, calm and clear. Camila immediately struck from the left, Chris from behind. Yaw moved faster than Alex’ words, parrying both overhead strikes, two quick cracks from the colliding Kali sticks echoing through the midnight air, less than a second apart.

Yaw spun his sticks in a figure eight in front of him, ready for the next attack, a look of determination on his face visible even beneath the blindfold.

Alex looked over to Master Winn, and Master Winn nodded. Alex looked at Camila, then Chris. He gave them thumbs up, followed by showing three fingers, indicating to them three consecutive strikes, no deception, Camila first.

“Left, right, back.”

Camila stepped in from Yaw’s left at the same instant he turned right. Her Kali stick glanced off the back of his left shoulder just as Chris’ stick struck him on the right.

“Break.” Winn commanded, before Camila could execute the final strike.

Yaw ripped off his blindfold in frustration.

“Dammit.”

“You tried to anticipate, and that misled you. In combat, there is no past, there is no future. There is only the moment. You must stay true to the moment.” Winn offered as an explanation.

“Yes Sir.” Yaw replied, frustration still detectable in his voice.

“That is enough for the evening. This will be our last lesson, until you all return.” Winn announced to the group.

Earlier that day, Alex had gone to see Winn about the message to New York mentioned to him by Joey Nguyen the night previous. He was somewhat surprised to find Yaw, Camila, and Chris there as well.

Much like his dojo, Master Winn’s residence was also constantly on the move, and he currently lived in a small barely furnished single apartment adjacent to the 105 Freeway in Lynwood.

“This delivery requires all four of you.” Winn announced to them, as they stood cramped together in Master Winn’s apartment.

“As you know, a deal has been brokered to allow safe haven in Watts. You need to go to New York, and bring back the first new placements. Three male, four female. Vietnamese. They range in age from thirteen, to twenty-three.”

“Anyone…claiming ownership..?” Yaw asked.

“Yes. That is why I’m sending the four of you.” Winn answered.

“Gotcha.” Yaw responded. His jaw tightened, a look of determination growing on his face, the thought of human trafficking making him visibly angry.

“They are currently in hiding.” Winn continued.

He handed a small piece of paper to Alex.

“There is a man at this address. He goes by the name of “Sam.” He will tell you where they are being hidden. You are to bring them here safely.”

Alex took the paper, and scanned its contents. He passed it around, Yaw being the last to see the address before the paper was to be burned.

“Done, and done.” Camila chimed in.

“When do we leave?” Chris asked.

“First thing in the morning.” Winn had told him. And then he had added, “Because tonight, we train.”

• • •

Alex watched as Chris grabbed the large coil of ropes that sat on the corner of the sixty-third floor platform. He carefully tied one end to a steel beam, and let the other drop to the top of the elevator three stories below. He looked at the others.

“So what’s the story for this evening’s activities?” He asked.

Yaw looked at Camila, then at Alex.

“Friend a’ mine’s workin’ the door at Club Sutra tonight. We all thought it’d be good to have a drink together, ya know, as a team, before we all roll on out tomorrow.”

“And by all he means all. And that means you have to come.” Camila added, looking right at Alex.

“I don’t do well with crowds.” He replied.

“You’re not with crowds, you’re with us.” She fired back.

She picked up a small backpack, and threw it to Alex. He caught it, looked at her.

“What’s this?” He asked, beginning to have a good idea what it was already.

“Clothes. “Cause I know you ain’t got any.”

“But…”

“No “buts”. You’re going. It’ll be a good time, I promise. You can trust me, ‘cause I’m a shitty liar, remember?”

“Lets go, ladies. It’s already twelve-thirty.” Chris added, before grabbing the rope, and disappearing off the edge of the platform.

“Okay, fine, I’ll go…” Alex finally relented, to no one in particular as he watched Yaw, then Camila disappear down the rope after Chris.

• • •

“You look good, my man.” Joey Nguyen said, as he gave Alex the once over.

The two young men stood in Alex’ 10x8 abandoned tool shed home, and Alex looked visibly uncomfortable in the new dress jeans and white dress shirt that Camila had given him.

“Everything is tight.” Alex commented, on the fit of the clothing.

“It’s supposed to fit that way.”

He started to tuck in his shirt.

“No no, you keep it un-tucked. “ Nguyen corrected.

“Oh.”

You really don’t get out much, do you?”

“No. I don’t.”

“That’s okay. You look fine. Now hurry up, if I’m gonna drop you off at the club in the next half hour, we gotta roll.”

You’re going to look after this, right?” Alex asked, pointing to the Magnavox and milk crate of old records.

Nguyen looked at Alex and could see that he was dead serious. Despite his reputation as a top-level courier and martial artist, there was an occasional naivety and innocence to Alex that surprised even the younger Nguyen.

“Of course I am. I mean, you’re doing some really important shit. Your stuff is definitely safe with me.”

“Thank you.” Alex replied with relief. Then he took a deep breath for courage, and looked at Nguyen. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

COLLISION COURSE

“I
am not waiting in line.” Nikki defiantly announced, as she eyed the long string of people waiting outside the club.

The cab driver pulled the car to the curb, and Ben handed him a pair of twenties.

“Don’t worry, I got us on the guest list. I wouldn’t make my Wall Street titan big sister wait in line.” Ben told her, as he checked a text message on his phone.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’m just kidding. C’mon, Let’s go.”

They exited the cab and Nikki pulled her tight-fitting dress back into place. All eyes both male and female locked on her, a few whistles rang out as she and her brother approached the black velvet rope that held back the line of eager patrons from the entrance to Club Sutra.

“Ben and Nikki Ellis.” Ben announced to the nearly three hundred pound doorman in the muscle tight black dress T-shirt who served as entrance guard.

He looked at his clipboard, scanned the list for their names, found them, and checked them off. He pulled aside the velvet rope, allowing Nikki and her brother by.

The two of them approached the oversized and hyper-stylized ten foot tall and six-inch thick diamond-plate metal designed double doors, the deep base sound and rhythm of house music coming from behind them growing louder and louder as they got closer to the entrance. Ben used both hands to pull the Mount Olympus-sized metal handle of the door open, and they were immediately hit with an enormous tidal wave of sound.

“Should have brought earplugs.” Nikki whispered to herself, before taking a deep breath for courage, and entering Club Sutra.

Club Sutra was a converted warehouse, the space itself a simple albeit enormous square, with a matching square shaped bar located dead center. The dance floor formed an angular U shape around three sides of the bar, with tables and seating on the fourth. A large mezzanine circumvented and overlooked the space above the floor, the railing dotted with counter-height tables and bar stools along three sides for easy viewing of the moving bodies below. A DJ booth took up the fourth wall of the second floor, a speaker barricaded fortress directly opposite the tables of the first floor.

It was absolutely packed with sexed up twenty-somethings, each with a drink in hand, smiling, flirting, and writhing to the music. Ben took his sister’s hand and led her through swarms of people towards the bar. She took note of the cages in two of the far corners of the club’s first floor, each with a three-quarters-naked female dancer doing her best stripper impression. For the first time since she came out to Los Angeles, she thought of moving back to New York.

“This is my sister Nikki.” Ben said to a young man whose eyes went wide at the site of her.

“Nikki, this is Scott.” He in turn said to his sister.

“Nice to meet you.” They both said to one another as they shook hands. Six foot tall and blonde, Scott was a twenty-three year old version of Brad Pitt. At least that was the way he saw it.

“What are you drinking?” Scott yelled to Nikki, above the cacophony of the crowds and music.

“I mean, you do drink, right?” He quickly added, in deference to Ben’s abstinence.

“I definitely do tonight.” She said, not loud enough for him to hear.

“What?” Scott yelled.

“Yes. I do. Grey Goose and Soda.” She replied, as loud as she could, knowing that at this decibel rate, she would have no voice left by the end of the evening.

Scott nodded, gave her a thumbs-up, and turned towards the bar.

Nikki looked at Ben. He responded before she could say a word.

“Just relax. Scott’s a nice guy.”

“What?” Nikki yelled in reply, frustrated that the heavy back beat and roar of conversation nearly drowned out any attempt at civil conversation.

Ben leaned close to her ear and yelled, “I said, just relax. Scott’s a nice guy.”

“He’s like twenty-three.” She yelled back.

“I’m twenty-three.”

“He looks like a trust fund baby.”

“He is. His father owns a hedge fund. I thought you two could relate.”