Sold to the Hitman(7)
He’s trying to suck up to someone, I think privately, giving a smile to Sergei and his rich friend. Sergei is a proud man, but sucking up when it’s useful is not beneath him by any measure. Tonight must be something special indeed.
“People are still buzzing over last week’s match,” I agree, bringing up the fixed fight Sergei had a chubby hand in. “It takes a special talent to draw men from all walks of life like this.”
“Aahh,” Sergei says, holding up a finger triumphantly. I’ve learned how to flatter him fairly easily over the years. “Good eye as ever — you see?” He turns to his Chechnyan friend again, who’s looking bemused. “This is why he’s my best. Ace in the hole, the Americans call it. And he’s absolutely right, tonight is going to be something for the whole community. Now come along,” Sergei starts to wander into the crowd with his wealthy friend, “there are a few of my associates who’ve been dying to meet you, and…”
His voice trails off as he and his men melt into the crowd, and I’m left alone again. Finally.
Working for Sergei Slokavich has become more of a chore over time. When he isn’t having half the other Russians in Brighton Beach killed, he’s indulging in every vice he can lay his hands on. Embarrassing as he is from my point of view, I have to admit, he’s skilled at making friends with deep pockets, particularly those who are fresh off the boat from the motherland.
The Chechnyan with him put on airs of authority, and judging by his age, I guess he’s the absurdly wealthy son of some mob boss back home, but even though we all spoke Russian, I could tell from his silence that he hardly spoke a word of the English that was being chattered all around him by the rabble. He’s out of his element, and Sergei is taking the chance to butter him up. It’s a clever ploy, but I wonder how long it’ll last.
I don’t have long to think about it, as the lights start to dim and focus on the stage at the far end of the room and people start to gather around.
That stage has been used to auction off high-dollar stolen goods in the past. I’ve seen everything from filched art and antiques to military-grade custom weapons pass through that stage. Whatever Sergei is selling tonight, it’s going to be good. I don’t have to crane my neck to see over the sea of people in the room.
A blonde man with a tight goatee I recognize stands up on the stage, running a hand through his hair as he waves at the crowd to quiet them, obviously playing the auctioneer for tonight. I chuckle.
The man’s name is Oskar, and he’s been through the ringer with the Bratva. Used to be a fairly successful collector until being recently disgraced by a job that went bad. I had been wondering where he’d end up after that kind of shame.
“Quiet down, quiet down!” he shouts at the crowd, “Gentlemen, you’ll want every one of your senses free for what we’ve got tonight!” One of the other bouncers reaches up from below to hand him a mic, and he grins, trying to look dramatic. He always was a fast talker.
“I see all the faces in this room have come from far and wide, and tonight’s entertainment does too! I got an eyeful of what we’ve got in store for you, and let me tell you, I envy those of you with the deepest pockets out there! But don’t worry, these goods have never before been sampled!”
There’s a dark laughter that goes out around the crowd of men, and I arch an eyebrow, getting a bad feeling about where he’s going with this.
“But you didn’t come to hear me ramble, so without further ado,” he turns to stage left and waggles his finger in a repulsive beckoning gesture, “come on out, ladies!”
With some hesitation and encouragement from the musclebound goon behind them, ten young women stumble out onto the stage, and the crowd starts hooting and hollering.
Immediately, I feel rage burning in my heart. Each one of the women is scantily clad, a few of them outfitted in counterfeits of expensive lingerie, others wearing nothing more than star or heart-shaped nipple coverings and underwear.
Every terrified young woman, none of them a day over 20 and all of them shaking with wide-eyed fear at the sea of ravenous, drunk men cheering up at them, holds a little placard with a number on it.
This is a slave auction.
My hands ball into fists, and I feel my face going red. So this is what Sergei valued so dearly that he wanted his best man guarding it — a flesh trade, the most lowly and vile practice even the Bratva could sink to.
My first impulse is to consider how easy it could be to kill all of these disgusting pigs in the room. My stints in Russian prisons taught me quickly how to size up a crowd of surly men that far outnumber you. A crowd of drunks like this was no comparison to a prison full of abusive, slave-driving guards and broken prisoners.