The Kingpin’s Call Girl

Chapter 1

Chapter One

EDIE

New York breeds plenty of predators in designer suits, but the men in this hotel bar are something else entirely. They’re sleek. Hard. Dangerous.

Steel and diamonds instead of flesh and bone.

And worlds away from the college boys I’m used to being around.

Even their hands seem bigger and rougher. More . When guys come up to the bar, I try not to focus too hard on their hands or think about them touching me.

Bender promised me it wouldn’t go that far, but I’m not stupid. I’m not in the safe, regular world anymore. This is a luxury hotel run by the Albanian mob, heavy with old money, dripping with chandeliers, a place that is so far beyond the orbit of my life, I might as well be on Mars.

It’s 10:07 p.m. on a Saturday night...10:08 p.m. on a Saturday night.

I need to stop looking down at my phone; I really, really do.

I’m trying desperately not to drink all of my gin and tonic in one gulp, but it’s hard because I’m hyper-conscious of my dress, which is fire-engine red. The back goes down to my butt crack, and don’t get me started on the plunging front.

I feel exposed to every eye in the room. I guess that’s the point.

Is this how my sister felt?

Feels I correct myself. How my sister feels .

Because I know she’s not dead—she can’t be. She can’t get to a phone, that’s all. Or maybe she’s on some kind of whirlwind trip where she’s partying so hard she lost track of what day it is. What week it is.

I close my eyes and say a little prayer that that’s what happened.

There’s a thin plastic rain poncho rolled up in my purse. This will be over in three hours and twelve minutes, and then I’ll put the poncho over my dress and walk out of here and give my report to Bender. I’ll go home and scrub off my makeup and wear pajama pants for the next ten years.

A notification flashes across my phone, a faint beacon from my other life—my real life. My roomie, Odetta, likes a post of mine.

It feels like a world ago.

I take a breath. I’ve stood here too long.

It’s okay to stay mysterious, Bender said, but as soon as you get centered, take a fucking breath, turn around, and smile at him.

The him in this case is “Iron Jaw” Dardan, a low-level mobster and member of the Ghost Hound Clan. Bender told me that Albanians call themselves clans instead of mobs or gangs or mafia families.

In addition to having a thing for women in sexy red dresses, Iron Jaw Dardan has cold eyes and a belly like a beachball, and he’s old enough to be my father.

You don’t have to fuck him; you just have to sit with his group and listen to their conversation.

I’m supposed to remember names, places, and dates. Easy enough for a history major.

I take another sip, letting the alcohol burn. Bender gave me thirty dollars to spend, and it barely covered this drink, plus a tip. It seems like an outrageous waste, considering I had to sell my dining hall punch card just to buy books.

Just get the invitation to sit, I remind myself. Sit and listen. Bender has promised to drop the charges against me and help me find my sister if I complete this one simple assignment.

He gave me a picture of a woman who has a major 1970s hairdo the stylist called a “Farrah Fawcett” to bring to the beauty salon. Apparently, Bender has been studying the tastes of this guy named Dardan, the one most likely to bring me to the table.

I rip a tiny corner off the napkin and then another and another. I can name all eighty-three Roman emperors and every pope from Saint Peter to the Reformation, but fooling a bunch of hardened criminals? I don’t see how I can pull that one off.

I take another sip and try to channel my anger instead of my fear. Criminals are just stupid brutes who can’t get ahead the right way, so they take the wrong path, that’s all.

For a second I imagine my sister, Mary, laughing at me for that kind of explanation.

Mary is obsessed with criminals. It’s how she got sucked into the life she’s leading now.

Growing up, Mary was always the one who cared for me and protected me, especially after Dad left.

I didn’t realize until way too late that she needed me to protect her.

Well, I’m protecting her now. But I need to find her first.

I force myself to turn around. I glance at the corner booth, and sure enough, Dardan is staring at me. I know it’s him from the pictures Bender showed me.

I hold the stare suggestively long, but inside, I’m trembling. There’s a reason cops don’t send civilians into undercover work. Like maybe they’re terrible at it!

Charges dropped, sister located, I remind myself as Dardan licks his lips. I just have to get invited to the table.

I turn back to my drink, giving the bartender a nervous smile like he’s my last lifeline to civilization. In truth, I left civilization the minute I walked into this place. They could shoot somebody in the face here, and the busboys would clear the body away with the empty glasses.

The bartender slides a small bowl of nuts my way.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He picks up a glass and wipes the rim.

Growing up, my sister and I were the only ones who ever remembered each other’s birthdays.

At some point, we made a vow to always sing Happy Birthday to each other.

No matter where we might be, the call would be placed, and the song would be sung.

If one of us is dead, the other goes to the grave and sings it.

But when I tried to call Mary on her birthday two weeks ago, her number was out of service. I tried again and again. I tried her friends.

Nobody had seen her.

I went to her last apartment in a shabby high-rise “with a view of Rikers Island!” Mary once joked. Her angry, drug-addled Irish roommate said she owed rent. He couldn’t remember when exactly he’d last seen her. Three weeks ago, maybe.

I filed a missing person’s report, but the person taking down the info couldn’t have been more disinterested.

I finally headed to Emerald Avenue down in Southeast Bronx. Mary would work the street there when she needed cash; my plan was to show Mary’s picture around.

That’s when Bender and his partner arrested me.

I pleaded with them and swore I wasn’t a hooker. I explained how desperate I was to find my sister and that a solicitation charge on my record would destroy my dreams of being a high school history teacher.

Right before I was booked, Bender took me aside and said he’d found a way to get me out of the jam I was in... if I did this thing for him.

It sounded easy enough at the time.

I check my phone to make sure it’s got reception and that the sound is turned up. Bender is going to call me at 1:20 a.m. to get me out of here. He promised that he’d personally come into the place if he had to. Three hours.

“What if this guy wants to exchange money for sexual favors before 1:20 a.m.?” I’d asked.

Bender said it wouldn’t happen because “the chatter” said they’d be hanging out until dawn working out plans. But I could always make an excuse and leave.

I catch Dardan’s eye in the mirror and look away.

Don’t seem too eager, Bender told me. A little bit of resistance is part of the package you’re selling.

Just as I’m gathering my nerve to walk over, Dardan appears beside me. “She’ll have another.” He puts money on the bar. “What’s your name, honey?” His breath smells of mint and onions.

“Honey,” I say.

He leans in closer. “Well, isn’t that convenient.”

I go for a Mona Lisa smile. Don’t be eager.

“You looking for a date?” he asks.

“You a cop?” Bender told me to ask that.

“I look like a cop?” he asks.

“You’re not answering the question, soooo.” I shrug.

“I’m not a cop,” he says.

“Two an hour. Grand for the night.”

He reaches around and grabs my ass. “You gonna make it worth my while?”

I force myself to smile like it’s a joke. Is it a joke? I don’t know. I just have to get invited to the table and memorize names, dates, and locations.

“Send it to our table,” he tells the bartender. “Come on.”

I shove off the bar, balancing on my heels.

He takes a chair outside of a circular corner booth and makes me sit on his lap .

I settle in, trying to center myself more on his legs and less on his crotch. Hate criminals , I think.

A waiter sets down a fresh gin and tonic.

There are five men and two women, but no one gives introductions.

“New around here?” a jowly man across the table asks. He has a heavy brow and a baby-blue sports jacket. The woman next to him is watching me with hooded eyes. She has glossy brown hair like a model, and I get the feeling she’s the one who wants to know.

“Just passing through,” I say. “On my way to Vegas. I have a modeling job set up.” More stuff Bender told me to say. If I’m just passing through, I won’t be as threatening to the women whose territory this bar is.

“Modeling for who?” the woman asks.

“Lingerie line,” I say.

Dardan roams his eyes down my front for about the tenth time.

I force a smile. My B-cups are playing C for the night, thanks to a lot of padding.

“I think you got what it takes to make it big in that business,” he says.

I force another smile, fantasizing about making a citizen’s arrest—Dardan and the other men. These are the kinds of men who lured my sister into their stupid life of easy money, danger, and drugs.

They all have opinions about Vegas—some hate it, some love it, and for one strange moment, they’re like normal people. Everybody I know has an opinion on Vegas. I tell them I’ve never been there.

“Be careful,” the woman with glossy hair says. “Most of those photogs are pervs. Get your pay up front. Nothing on spec.”

I nod and thank her. It’s sweet that she’s giving me advice .

The talk turns to cars, and I get the feeling that was the topic before I sat down. I start taking notes in my head.

At one point, Dardan gives my thigh a squeeze, like he’s testing out an avocado. I try not to stiffen.