Chapter 15 Barter Economy
BARTER ECONOMY
Wes was going to solve Sasha’s case. That was no question. But, after the dedication ceremony, his strategy changed.
No more doing things by the book. No more attempting to emulate his sainted father’s integrity.
Integrity took too long. And who was he trying to prove himself to, anyway?
His dad? Way too late to change his mind; to convince him that he was a worthy business partner and son.
Wes Senior had fired him while he was in hospice.
And a few months later, he’d suffered a fatal stroke.
And, just like his mom had articulated so clearly (despite slurring every word prior), he’d died disappointed in his only son.
So, it no longer mattered how he conducted this case.
His head was still spinning. That moment managed to obliterate his ego while also being the absolute highlight of his year.
It was like she’d uppercut him in the balls while slipping him a winning lottery ticket.
And she’d only kissed him because she pitied him, not because she wanted him.
To her, Wes was just a savior figure. A good friend. An emotional support person.
Her emotional support person whose voice, simply his voice, made her come.
That call. Did she think he didn’t know what she was doing? Did she think he couldn’t hear her? The hitching of her breath, the soft, airy moans, the barely suppressed whimpers—he was on the other side of the call, coming apart. And harder than he’d ever been in his life.
Was she trying to torture him? If so, it was working.
It was so illicit, so dirty and intimate.
After hanging up, he stared at the wall, buzzing with a furious, unmet ache.
Sasha left him with his dick in his hand, jacking off like a teenager, desperately imagining it was her.
Her hand, her outrageously sensual mouth, her tongue, her everything.
That call was erotic torment. And he was the idiot who, for the first ten minutes, actually thought she was calling in search of his boxing services.
Once he realized what she was doing, it was like the bottom dropped out of his world.
They weren’t dating. He wasn’t even in the running.
They were professional associates with a friendship that was getting deeper and richer with every nighttime call.
The problem was, he’d started looking forward to those groggy, sleepy talks.
The rest of his day was stressful—he was hustling, romancing investors, perfecting recipes, or obsessively researching competitions around the country.
Exciting stuff, to be sure. But five minutes of Sasha, on the phone, in the dark, was his new reason for living.
And acting normal around her was becoming excruciating.
The way she looked at the bench ceremony almost ended him.
The contours of her waist, her sleeper-build breasts spilling out of that low-cut dress.
The soft protectiveness in her face when she leaned up to kiss him.
Wes was so tired of pretending that her every move didn’t knock him sideways.
At the ceremony, it was especially tough to hide his feelings, because he was also trying to hide that his family was laced with dysfunction.
He wanted to protect Sasha from their bullshit. She’d been through enough.
And so had he, honestly. Wes had an intense need to finish this case and get back to who he was before Sasha Cruz got under his skin.
He’d been close to getting it out of the Seraphina sales associate, by way of her manager’s consumer “threat” database—until he was distracted by Sasha.
He’d considered circling back with the associate, but it was quicker and cleaner to start fresh.
And he knew where to start. The top-secret USFlight Airlines manifest.
The manifest would list all of Seat F’s information. But it was a sealed document. The only way to gain access was to bribe an airline employee. Lucky for him, bribing was his specialty. Well, quickly assessing who was bribable was his specialty.
After making a few calls, he discovered that USFlight employees hung out at Upstairs Cocktail Bar in Jackson Heights, Queens.
Nestled above a restaurant called Unidentified Flying Chickens (the most confoundingly baller name for a Korean spot, ever), the low-key speakeasy was about five minutes from Fiorello Airport.
Perfect. He formulated a plan while speeding down the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
Admittedly, it wasn’t that involved. The plan was as follows: chill at the bar for a while, eavesdrop on some conversations, find a USFlight Airlines worker, and play it as it lays.
Despite feeling certain about leaving the detective world, there was no denying it—the high of undercover work was unmatched.
His new career was fun, honest work; but it was safe.
Straightforward. You buy materials, cook, and hope you can sell enough to profit.
It was gratifying, but it wasn’t thrilling.
Not like this. Not like dropping into a situation, cold, all synapses firing—with no way to prepare—and surviving on wits and wiles, alone.
Each moment could mean everything or nothing.
Only the most plugged-in, alive professionals knew the difference.
Was he still mentally nimble enough to think on his feet?
God, I missed this, he thought, pulling into a parking space just off Roosevelt Boulevard, a consistently crowded main thoroughfare.
After walking a few blocks, he spotted Unidentified Flying Chickens, slid on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses (no prescription), and ducked into the hidden door by the restaurant.
With his NYU trucker cap, NYU tee, and Carhartt trousers, he was going for a “cool grad student vibe.” Approachable, open, and unthreatening.
Heading up the narrow, green-lit stairwell, he caught his reflection in a mirror and decided he looked the part.
The speakeasy was dimly lit with a tucked-away bar.
It was a cash-only, pop-radio, cigarette-smoke, no-food type of scene.
There were a few stools at the bar, some two-person tables against a back wall, and a few sunken sofas.
Through the smoke, Wes checked out the crowd.
It was 6:00 p.m., happy hour. And, true to his research, about half the people still had on their USFlight uniforms. He spotted an empty barstool, next to two uniformed USFlight employees.
Quietly, Wes made his way through the tight crowd. He straddled the seat, asked for a drinks menu, and opened his ears.
There was a woman next to him, chatting it up with a balding Asian guy in glasses.
Judging from the cadence of their conversation, they were tipsy, but in a fun, loose-lipped way—neither had entered messy territory.
The woman was coffee-skinned, tall, maybe six foot one, with dramatic makeup and a high ponytail.
Her USFlight hat was crumpled in her lap. And she was mid-cheers.
“Here’s to my last day,” she exclaimed, holding up a shot glass.
“Onward and upward, queen.” Her friend clinked his glass to hers. “I still can’t believe this is happening. That Mark actually fired you. Man, fuck Mark.”
“Me too, but that’s corporate America,” she said.
“That’s America, period,” he pointed out. “Discrimination and hate and judgment.”
“And small-dicked bosses named Mark with cigar breath and failed hair plugs from Turkey,” she added.
“I’m gonna miss you, Roslyn,” he wailed. “Let’s Zoom every day.”
“No, FaceTime,” said Roslyn. “Mark already canceled my USFlight Zoom account. And confiscated my ten-year anniversary pin in front of the whole team.” She quickly looked both ways and then lowered her voice. “The motherfucker ripped it off my vest and threw it away himself.”
“Not in front of the whole team,” gasped her friend.
“Had the nerve to say I was the one throwing away ten years. Not him.”
“Wait, is he allowed to do that?”
Time to jump in, thought Wes.
“Actually, that’s assault,” he mumbled under his breath.
Roslyn and her friend turned in his direction, two sets of eyebrows raised to the heavens.
“Oh. Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to butt in,” he apologized with a sheepish grimace. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
“No, it’s my fault, my voice carries,” said Roslyn, with a delicate flutter of her fingers.
“Mark sounds like a real asshole,” said Wes. “And it sounds like you escaped a toxic situation. I had a bad day at work myself, so I can relate.”
Wes didn’t have a bad day at work, nor did he have a story prepared.
“I promise you,” said the friend, “whatever happened to you today, it couldn’t be worse than what Mark did.”
“Well, I can’t resist competition.” Flashing his dimpled smile, Wes lowered the brim of his cap and folded his arms. “Let’s go. What’s the backstory, Roslyn?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you. But let’s do shots first.”
Wes declined (he needed his wits), but Roslyn and her friend downed another round.
“You sitting down?” asked Roslyn figuratively. “Long story short, I’m a flight attendant, okay? Ten years with the same airline.”
“Incredible run,” said Wes. “You’re obviously a dedicated worker.”
“Extremely, okay? So, I was floored when, two weeks ago, Mark dismissed me from a Tallahassee flight for quote-unquote wearing club makeup. Club makeup? He’s a sixty-two-year-old geezer from Anne Arundel County, Maryland. What’s he know about the club?”
Wes’s jaw dropped. “Damn. I’m halfway through law school, so I can tell you that’s definitely not legal.”
Subtly, Wes checked Roslyn’s body language. She was sitting with her feet propped on the ledge under the bar. Subtly, he propped his feet up, too, mirroring her—to signal to her subconscious that he was safe, and on her side.
“There’s more,” said Roslyn. “Last week, he took me off first class. I’ve served first class for seven years.”