walk because of all the screwing they did in the first coupla weeks. They threw the new girls in at the deep end, if you know what I mean. Twelve, fourteen tricks a day right off the bat. Hank called it conditioning .”
“What nationality were the girls?”
“All over the block. When I first came on, Russian girls were really big. The Slavic look, you know? Then we had a lot of spics. Just before I left, they were moving to more Asians—you know, Oriental types.”
“Can you tell me anything at all that might help me track down their sellers?”
Lila thought. “We weren’t told anything, but we girls talked among ourselves a lot. It was the only way we had to pass the time. I remember one thing. A coupla girls said they thought they’d been rescued at the end of the boat trip because there was a cop on board. But nothing happened.”
Garrett couldn’t conceal his shock. “How did they know he was a cop? Was he in uniform?”
“Not full Mountie gear. He had the hat, though, and wore a cop belt—you know—with night stick and handcuffs. Oh, yeah, and he had a badge of some kind.”
“Did they say if he was armed?”
“Uh … I think so. At least one of the girls said something about a pistol.”
The partial uniform was strange. Maybe he was on special assignment or possibly from some other government agency. He could have been undercover, but then why have any Mountie stuff at all? Could he have been a cop undercover, pretending to be a pimp pretending to be a cop? Garrett shook his head at the idea. It made no sense.
“Okay. Anything else you can think of ?”
“Yeah—’bout a year ago, we had a large group of spic girls come in. Must have been fifteen of ’em. They told us they’d come by plane. A big private jet. I guess it was a pretty cushy deal. Lots of food on board and fancy seats. A couple of the girls even got alcohol when they were brought into a private room. ’Course they had to have sex to get it.”
“Did they say who with?”
“All they said was a coupla older guys.”
He sighed. “All right, Lila. You’ve been a big help—I mean it.”
She nodded, looking up at him with her wide eyes. “You won’t forget about trying to get me outta here?”
“I won’t forget. And Lila? They’re not spics, they’re Hispanics.”
8
R OLAND TURNED HIS PICKUP INTO his driveway and stopped just past the bait barn. The engine for the cooler ground away in a satisfyingly loud manner. He listened to it for a moment, grunting in satisfaction.
He took two repaired scallop rakes out of the truck bed and tossed them to one side. His front yard was an amalgam of trash, dilapidated boat parts, heaps of plastic buckets, rotting fish nets, two old refrigerators, and several piles of dirt, one almost twenty feet high.
The original house was a small log structure. Years ago, Roland’s father had stuck a modern two-story addition onto the back, creating a spectacularly ugly mismatch. This was Roland’s space, where he could get away from Ma and spend hours immersed in chatrooms on his computer. Though he worked with various helpers doing carpentry and taking out sport fishermen, none of the workers cared for him and left him alone the rest of the time. His sole social outlet was through his computer friends, people he would never meet.
He banged into the house and his mother called from the living room, “Did ya remember ta do the shoppin’?”
“Yeah, Ma. I got the stuff.” He unloaded the bags of groceries on a counter overflowing with dirty dishes. Rose, his mother, had always maintained a spotless home, but she’d been injured in a fall years ago. Her mobility had been greatly reduced as a result and now arthritis had set in. Her husband, Roland’s father, quickly tired of caring for her and left. Now Rose could only get about with a walker and was unable to do much housecleaning. Roland was hardly a good substitute.
She plodded slowly into the kitchen, pushing her walker.
“What nationality were the girls?”
“All over the block. When I first came on, Russian girls were really big. The Slavic look, you know? Then we had a lot of spics. Just before I left, they were moving to more Asians—you know, Oriental types.”
“Can you tell me anything at all that might help me track down their sellers?”
Lila thought. “We weren’t told anything, but we girls talked among ourselves a lot. It was the only way we had to pass the time. I remember one thing. A coupla girls said they thought they’d been rescued at the end of the boat trip because there was a cop on board. But nothing happened.”
Garrett couldn’t conceal his shock. “How did they know he was a cop? Was he in uniform?”
“Not full Mountie gear. He had the hat, though, and wore a cop belt—you know—with night stick and handcuffs. Oh, yeah, and he had a badge of some kind.”
“Did they say if he was armed?”
“Uh … I think so. At least one of the girls said something about a pistol.”
The partial uniform was strange. Maybe he was on special assignment or possibly from some other government agency. He could have been undercover, but then why have any Mountie stuff at all? Could he have been a cop undercover, pretending to be a pimp pretending to be a cop? Garrett shook his head at the idea. It made no sense.
“Okay. Anything else you can think of ?”
“Yeah—’bout a year ago, we had a large group of spic girls come in. Must have been fifteen of ’em. They told us they’d come by plane. A big private jet. I guess it was a pretty cushy deal. Lots of food on board and fancy seats. A couple of the girls even got alcohol when they were brought into a private room. ’Course they had to have sex to get it.”
“Did they say who with?”
“All they said was a coupla older guys.”
He sighed. “All right, Lila. You’ve been a big help—I mean it.”
She nodded, looking up at him with her wide eyes. “You won’t forget about trying to get me outta here?”
“I won’t forget. And Lila? They’re not spics, they’re Hispanics.”
8
R OLAND TURNED HIS PICKUP INTO his driveway and stopped just past the bait barn. The engine for the cooler ground away in a satisfyingly loud manner. He listened to it for a moment, grunting in satisfaction.
He took two repaired scallop rakes out of the truck bed and tossed them to one side. His front yard was an amalgam of trash, dilapidated boat parts, heaps of plastic buckets, rotting fish nets, two old refrigerators, and several piles of dirt, one almost twenty feet high.
The original house was a small log structure. Years ago, Roland’s father had stuck a modern two-story addition onto the back, creating a spectacularly ugly mismatch. This was Roland’s space, where he could get away from Ma and spend hours immersed in chatrooms on his computer. Though he worked with various helpers doing carpentry and taking out sport fishermen, none of the workers cared for him and left him alone the rest of the time. His sole social outlet was through his computer friends, people he would never meet.
He banged into the house and his mother called from the living room, “Did ya remember ta do the shoppin’?”
“Yeah, Ma. I got the stuff.” He unloaded the bags of groceries on a counter overflowing with dirty dishes. Rose, his mother, had always maintained a spotless home, but she’d been injured in a fall years ago. Her mobility had been greatly reduced as a result and now arthritis had set in. Her husband, Roland’s father, quickly tired of caring for her and left. Now Rose could only get about with a walker and was unable to do much housecleaning. Roland was hardly a good substitute.
She plodded slowly into the kitchen, pushing her walker.
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