9
I
It’s been a while since I had the succulent lips of a good woman around my cock, and I was tempted to contact the local brothel. My phone with all the numbers of my favorite girls was seized when I was arrested, and when they returned it, the SIM card was absent, probably still in an evidence bag or inspected by forensics.
They couldn’t find incriminating evidence on my phone because I wasn’t that fucking stupid and careless to use my leading phones to organize jobs. But the evidence they wanted didn’t exist. Evidence that pinned me as the one who organized Lars Kaiser's execution. Why the fuck would have him killed? He was not only my uncle but my closest friend. But it was never about the truth. It was always about destroying the Kaiser chapter in Larsson, and they’d do whatever it took to do that.
Freddie knocked on my open door, and I asked him to enter. It was just after 10 AM, and I was upstairs alone, as Ronan should be in class at Gotland and wouldn’t start his shift until midafternoon. This was my favorite time in the club, before the serving staff arrived and before the members turned up to offload their cash.
“Shut the door,” I told him, as I didn’t want anyone floating around to overhear this conversation. “I need a girl.”
His eyebrows cocked at my brutal honesty, cutting to the chase because it’s been far too long since I’d fucked a girl since I was in that fucking prison for three years. After a while, I learned to tame that energy into exercise: push-ups and squats in my cell or running in the exercise yard.
“A girl?” he needed clarification.
“Not staff or a dance girl. Someone who has nothing to do with the club,” I explained. “For tonight.”
“I can organize someone for you, Mikky. No problem. Do you have a preference? Blond or brunette. Asian or Latino. Slim or curvy,” he was asking the right questions, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I hadn’t thought about hair color and ass size, so I was a little taken aback.
“Brunette,” I told him, then the girl with glasses entered my mind, and I changed my mind, “Redhead. Send me a redhead. A real redhead.”
The girl that Ronan and my nephew lost their fucking minds over would soften my cock, not harden it. Seriously, they needed to sort their heads out, forget her, and find a girl from college. There must be a thousand hot girls willing to spread their legs for a Kaiser.
“No problem,” he replied smoothly. “Would you like me to bring her up here? Or somewhere more discreet.”
I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t want her coming to my apartment, and I didn't want to be seen with her here either. “Book me a night in a hotel room. Somewhere nice, but not too nice.”
“Absolutely, Mikky,” he said with a smile. “Would you like me to organize beverages and finger food as well? Wine? Red or white. Perhaps something harder?”
I was relieved he asked because it’s been a while since I’d been on a date with a woman, and I’d become rusty. My priority was the fucking, and I had forgotten about the foreplay and conversation that one had to endure before getting between her legs. But this was whore. I couldn’t care less about her feelings.
My finger tapped persistently on my desk as the rhythm reflected my growing irritation at this liaison turning into a big fucking deal. “I want her classy, clean, and smelling great,” I instructed, holding back my impatience. “But a classy whore is still a whore. Wine, but nothing special, and finger food, but nothing too fancy.”
“Sure,” he replied. “Anything else, Mik-
A scream belted out down the hall, and my heart almost exploded in fright. “Mr. Gale. Mr. Gale,” the female bellowed down the hall, and I propelled to my feet and followed Freddie to the door.
Poking my head out the door, I found one of our cleaners panicking, then apologizing for daring to break the rules and come up here to the office area without permission. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kaiser and Mr. Gale, but we have a problem downstairs. It’s an emergency.” Her ruddy hands were shaking, and her eyes were the size of saucers.
Her reaction concerned me, so I followed them down the stairs while she flapped her arms and yapped incoherently. The only word I could pick up on was ‘rats.’ Indeed, she didn’t mean actual rats, or maybe I heard wrong.
We were greeted by another cleaner with a vacuum pack on her back. She looked worried, mainly as I descended the stairs and pointed to the kitchen. “They’re in there.”
“ They ?” the other cleaner shrilled, shocked. “There’s more than one?”
“What are we talking about?” I was angered as I strode down the empty hallway to the kitchen to find another cleaner precariously treading the floor, checking corners and cupboards with the end of a mop. “What are you looking for?”
“Rats,” he stated as his pupils dilated at seeing me, the big boss, standing before him. They knew shit was going to hit the fan if I turned up.
“Rats? More than one?” I snarled, combing the floor for signs such as droppings or a tail hanging from a cupboard.
“Three,” the guy said, peering inside a pots and pans cupboard. “One went on there.”
“How the fuck did they get in here?” I growled, bending down to try and find it. “Every corner of this place has traps.” I looked back at Freddie, who was pacing, embarrassed. “Call the pest exterminator.”
“Yes, Mr. Kaiser,” I was glad he used my correct title in front of the staff to show my authority, but this situation was unacceptable.
“And tell them to be discreet,” I seethed, feeling my shoulders tense. “I don’t want media to find out we’ve got a fucking rat problem as they’d plaster on their front page that we’ve got an abominable plague outbreak.”
“Yes, Mr. Kaiser,” Freddie answered as he scrolled through his phone, searching for a number to call.
“Oh, and…” I stepped out of the kitchen, signaling him to follow so we could have a private chat out of earshot of the staff. “Check security cameras.”
“Security cameras? You think it was deliberate?” he asked, unsurprised but curious. He’d worked for felons long enough to know that things are never as they seem, and there was always someone wanting what we’ve got.
“I’m covering all bases,” I told him as I stepped away to return to my office. “Check the traps and watch them ,” lowering my voice while pointing to the kitchen, “like a fucking hawk. Ensure the staff and pest exterminators sign a gag clause contract to keep their mouths shut. Got it?”
“Got it,” he replied, returning to the kitchen to sort this mess out while I took a deep breath as I ascended the stairs.
They better have this sorted before we open because the last thing I needed was a fucking rat running around the feet of our millionaire guests. I paused at Ronan’s office and wondered if he had some weed hidden in his drawer, but it was locked when I tried the handle. Never mind, I’d suck on my cigar and drink some expensive whiskey, even though it was early to ease my stress.
I walked past my office to the viewing room at the end of the hall to watch the staff for a few minutes. Two cleaners were busy vacuuming the carpeted floor and seemed oblivious to the drama in the kitchen. The bar staff hadn’t arrived yet, nor had the chefs and dancers, so I hoped the problem would be fixed by then. The fewer people who knew, the easier it would be to keep a lid on it.
I was about to retreat to my office when I spotted something white running under the table. Fuck. A rat. I can’t imagine there were white gutter rats, as they looked like rodents bred for pet stores and labs for scientific experimentation. Not that I was an expert on rodents. I was pretty familiar with human rats, though.
I swiped for Freddie’s number, and he answered immediately. “Rat in the casino. Get out there ASAP.” Moments later, he appeared with a pot, and I guided him to the table where it was hidden. He dropped to his knees and scrambled about searching for the thing. It'd be laughable if it weren’t for the fact that our reputation could be damaged.
The rat and Freddie battled it out, and Freddie finally won. The rat ran out from the blackjack table, and Freddie placed a pot over it. I didn’t want to see what happened next, so I returned to my office to review some paperwork while my staff made the rat problem disappear.
As I approached, a knock on the wall of my office urged me to stop. The door was open several inches, so I pushed it all the way and glanced around the room. There was a lingering scent of fried chicken, which I hadn’t eaten. It was too early in the morning for the cooking to start in the kitchen, so I knew it wasn’t carried in there by Freddie.
I strode to the desk, poked my head underneath, and found no one there. Then I stepped to the cupboard where I hung my spare suits and flung the door open to see that it was empty, too. I opened the bathroom door precariously when I heard a scraping sound, but it was also empty.
“Sup,” a male voice yelled, and I was startled.
“Jeezus fucking Christ, I just about fucking lost my breakfast,” I snarled at Ronan as he entered, looking confused.
“What’s going on downstairs?” he asked, his eyes flicking about as he searched for whatever I was searching for. “Have you lost something?”
“No,” I exhaled, rubbing my eyes with the base of my hands. “The staff found some rats, and I thought I heard one…can you smell fried chicken?”
“Wait. Are there rats?” he stepped away, cringing. “Where?”
“In the fucking kitchen, and they look like the pet store variety of rats,” I told him. “White and inbred.”
“Fuck. I bet it’s the fucking Russians,” he said out loud what I was thinking. “Wanting their club back at a cheap price.”
It was the old schoolbook of trickery: If you want to buy a property, damage it first, stir up chaotic neighbors, start a rumor, or something similar, so you can force a sale and get it for a steal.
“Why are you here this early anyway?” I asked, closing the bathroom door and scanning the office again in case I had missed a corner where a rat could hide.
“My class was canceled because the tutor was sick, so I thought I’d come to work early,” he explained, combing his fingers through his hair, looking perturbed.
“Everything alright?” I questioned.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Something stinks…” his nostrils flared as he looked skyward at the ceiling. “Yeah, I can smell fried chicken or something worse.”
“Worse?” The more I sniffed, the more it smelled like sewage.
“It might be up there,” he suggested, pointing to the ceiling.
The floor above is the Red Velvet rooms, where we organize high-class hookers for our very elite and exclusive guests that can afford to pay large sums of money for the privilege of privacy and discretion. No secrets escaped the Red Velvet rooms, mainly because they were so fiercely gatekept that most of our staff wouldn’t know of their existence, let alone be allowed to venture beyond the hidden door.
“I’ll check it out while you help get rid of those rats,” I instructed, as another knock struck a wall, this time sounding as though it came from the ceiling. Maybe Ronan was right.
“Sure thing, Mikky,” he said, striding to the door, always eager to help out where and when he could. Another scraping sound came from the floor above, and Ronan came to a halt. “Maybe I should come with you, Mikky.”
“Yeah, maybe you should,” I agreed, opening my bottom drawer, taking out a Glock, and checking that it was loaded. “Pardon the pun, but I smell a fucking rat.”
“Me too,” he replied as I walked behind him down the hall, tucking my handgun into my belt under my shirt.
We trotted down the stairs under a serenade of screeching staff, discovering another rat somewhere it shouldn’t be. My jaw locked as a slight pain reverberated down my neck as Ronan swore under his breath.
I decided, “If we don’t solve this problem in one hour, we’ll remain closed. "
“How many are there?” he asked, staring down the hall at a staff member flapping her hands, her expression one of horror.
“I have no idea,” I exhaled as we left to enter the casino area. I ran my finger along the treacle-colored surface of the nearest blackjack table to ensure it was dust-free.
On the other side of the divider wall was the bar, dining area, and stage where the girls wiggle their asses. At the back of the gallery were double doors that led into a private lounge room, where men would go if they wanted to have a quiet conversation away from the noise of the brass band. Many business deals were conducted down here while relaxing on plush leather couches and smoking Cuba’s finest.
To the untrained eye, the last room on the left had a bookcase filled with leatherbound texts. However, the bookcase had a secret entrance, and you had to know which book hid the keypad and what the code was for opening it.
I tapped in the code, and the bookcase opened. We filed inside, clicking the bookcase shut. The stairs had a red glow from the colored lights as we quietly ran up two flights of stairs to the floor above our offices. The stench of fried chicken was pungent up there, turning my stomach, not because it stunk so badly, but because I knew it was something worse than fried chicken.
With my gun firmly in hand, I pressed my ear against the door; when I heard no sound, I opened it and peered inside to find it empty, with the bed neatly made.
“Mikky,” Ronan whispered, nodding his head toward the door at the end of the hall directly above my office.
I tread quietly along the wooden floorboards to the door, pressed my ear against the wood, and heard a scraping sound followed by a human gasp, but it was hard to tell.
“On three,” Ronan whispered as I nodded in agreement. He held up three fingers and dropped one finger as another grunt bled out from the room. This time, it definitely sounded human and in pain.
Ronan dropped his third finger and opened the door swiftly, and we were hit with the most disgusting, nauseating smell, which was the least revolting thing in the room.
“What the fuck?” Ronan blurted as we tried to digest the visual assault in our eyes.
An old dude, wearing nothing but his underwear, bound to the bed, mouth duct taped, and eyes covered with a blindfold. At the sound of us opening the door, he started freaking out, tugging at his handcuffs and making stifled pleading noises as if he thought we were there to hurt him.
“Jeezus, Mr. Yarmouth,” I panicked when I recognized him, wondering how the fuck this happened, and he started to make gasping sounds in relief as if he was close to a panic attack.
Ronan ripped the tape off his mouth and removed the blindfold, apologizing in one breath while asking him if he was okay in the other. This was embarrassing for us. Mr. Yarmouth was an important guest, so how the fuck did he end up like this?
“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” I asked him, and he shook his head.
“Just get me out of here,” he ordered, embarrassed, as Ronan felt for the release button on the handcuffs to unlock them. He’d soiled the mattress, which was where the stink came from. “Champagne. My wife. Oh god, my wife. She’d be worried sick.”
He was mumbling incoherently about various things, and I wondered if his wife had contacted the staff to see if he was there. “How long have you been here?”
“Oh, god, too long. I don’t know. I need to bathe. Get me out of here—that girl. Champagne. Did this. She tricked me,” he said, his anger evident.
“Champagne?” Ronan questioned, confused, and shot me a sharp look. “Champagne did this?”
“Yeah, she lured me in here, stole my…where’s my wallet? My wallet. Where’s my wallet?” he screamed. “Where’s my wallet? She stole my wallet?”
I spotted his trousers in a heap on the floor and picked them up, finding his wallet inside one of the pockets. “It’s fine, and your wallet is here. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” I reiterated that even though he looked fine on the outside, he might be hurting internally.
Ronan unfastened the handcuffs and freed Mr. Yarmouth’s wrists, and he was close to tears as I was sure he was thinking he was going to die in there. I opened the cupboard, found a folded blanket, and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Mr. Yarmouth, just let me know if there is anything I can do to make it up to you.”
I suspected he wouldn’t go to the police because that would incriminate himself as a cheating married man who owned a multi-million-dollar corporation that produced educational toys for children. I doubted he’d be stupid enough to make a fuss about this, but we still had a problem with a disobedient girl called Champagne who left this valuable member of the Savile Club to rot.
“She set me up,” Mr. Yarmouth seethed as we walked him down the hall to the secret door. “Her and that man.”
“What man?” I asked, trying to control the rising rage. “There was someone else?”
His silver head dropped in shame. “They set me up and screwed me over.” The shame vanished, replaced by anger, which placed the blame back on me. “I want her head. I want her gone, Mikky.”
“No problem, Mr. Yarmouth. I’m right on it,” I assured him.