With a Twist (Last Call #4)(10)

I tilt my beer back and take another healthy swig. That was the hardest part about going undercover …  telling Kyle and knowing he's going to worry. But I have to put that aside now and start mentally preparing for this job. Because while I'm confident we're going to take these scumbags down, there's a possibility things could go to hell and I could find myself abducted and sold into sexual slavery.

And that certainly is not on my list of goals.





Chapter 3





Wyatt





Sitting at the main bar that runs perpendicular to the dance stage, I pour over the inventory spreadsheet before me, actually relishing over this rare opportunity to actually do non-criminal work for Simon. I take note of the current stock of beer, wine, and liquor laid out in neat columns, mentally calculate what will be needed for the week, especially given it's a payday weekend, and then handwrite out on a small pad of paper what I'll need to order.

I'm immersed deep in my work so much that I don't notice Lance take a seat next to me at the bar. It's quiet in here …  just after ten in the morning, and we're the only ones here. The bartenders and dancers won't be in for another hour for our noontime opening.

"Need you to audition some fresh talent," Lance says beside me, and I give a slight jerk before turning my head toward him.

"Fuck, man …  gave me a heart attack," I grumble good-naturedly.

Lance snorts out a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Oddly, I've become sort of friends with Lance. Well, my alter-ego Raze has become friends with him. He's a morally depleted criminal who helps his boss sell women as slaves for a living, and yet, while immersed deep in the role as a criminal myself, I've found that we've forged a tentative sort of friendship. He's sharp, witty, and loyal, which makes it easy to find something in common I can hold on to. He's also coldhearted, dangerous, and my enemy …  something I never let myself forget.

"What kind of talent are you looking for?" I ask as I swivel my bar stool to face him. Even though we're the only ones here, I keep my voice low.

"Need at least two …  no preference on coloring. And most important, they need to be expendable. Simon's getting buyers lined up."

I nod sagely at him. By expendable, he means no one will miss them if they go missing. "Two in one month?"

"Nah …  we'll unload one within a few weeks and then hold onto the other for a month or so. At the price they're generating, we don't have to move as much stock as we did before."

"Heard that," I quip as I stand up from the stool. "Give me a few days and I'll have them for you."

Lance holds his fist out, and I bump it with mine. "You're the man," he says with a grin.

"You the man," I joke back while pointing at him.

I gather my spreadsheet and tablet, making my way back toward the small office that I use. It's really nothing more than a large broom closet, but when I was promoted to General Manager, Simon seemed to think I needed my own place to do my work.

It has a metal desk with peeling, brown faux wood on top and a rickety old chair behind it. And that's pretty much all there is to my office besides a Playboy calendar hanging on my wall with a thumbtack, which I thought would lend credence to my overall scumbag cover.



       
         
       
        

Closing the door behind me, I sit down and let my shoulders sag with the weight that rests upon them. I just held a thirty-second conversation with a man about selling women to sex slavers, and for all Lance cares about this business, you would have thought we were discussing cattle. My stomach seems to be constantly pitching and turning from the sickness of my involvement and how deeply I've become immersed in this darkness.

Yeah …  my full-fledged membership in the circle of trust came fortuitously last week, and by a sheer stroke of luck. Despite having worked at The Platinum Club for almost three and a half months, I still had not been able to find one piece of evidence tying Simon to the dancers' disappearances. It was frustrating, and I was wondering at what point the task force was going to continue with this operation.

I had just begun to think that maybe we were barking up the wrong tree, when one night, just as we were closing the doors and shutting off the lights, two Alcohol Law Enforcement agents showed up. Flashing their credentials, they demanded entrance and then audience with the owner.

I walked back toward Simon's office and gave a quick knock on his door before opening it up. It had become my habit to do that since he brought me in on his prostitution scheme, and rather than waiting for him to invite me in, I walked in boldly and with the hope I'd catch him doing something he shouldn't.