CHAPTER 40

I made the call from a prepaid cell phone that night at Scott’s apartment in Waikiki.

Five rings, then a voice with a German-Austrian accent answered, “Number?”

“Ten.”

“Letter?”

“O.”

“Name?”

“Sam.”

“Who referred you?”

“Yoshimitsu Nakagawa.”

“What would you like?”

“A redhead, tall and thin.”

“No redheads,” he said. “These girls are not from fucking Scotland.”

“A brunette then.”

“I have one brunette, five-feet-nine, fifty-two kilograms. From Moldova.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand for four hours. Five up front.”

“Do you take Discover card?”

“This is not time for fucking joke. You want her or no?”

“Yes.”

“Give me address.”

I gave him Scott’s address and the apartment number.

“She come up, you give her half. She go back down, give to her driver. He count, then she come back up and stay four hours. Before she leave, you give her second half of money. If you damage her, you give to me whatever money I lose. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“One hour,” he said, then the line went dead.

*   *   *

An hour later Flan and I were seated in my Jeep, waiting in the dark for a limo or a Lincoln or whatever. Scott Damiano was upstairs with $10,000 in cash and a grin that made me question whether this was the right plan.

“This is bullshit,” Flan said for the fourth time. “Damiano’s up there waiting for a gorgeous brunette, and I’m down here sitting in a Jeep with you. I’ve been with the firm for years; he’s been here for a few months. I have seniority. How the hell does—”

“He’s been instructed not to touch her,”

Flan glowered at me.

“Well, that’s what he’s been instructed,” I said. “Remember, these girls are being exploited.”

“Yeah, by everyone but me,” Flan mumbled.

Mercifully, a black Lincoln turned onto Tusitala before Flan could utter another word. We watched as a tall brunette I’d never seen before exited the vehicle and sauntered toward the entrance of Scott’s apartment building. She was dressed as if she had some place to go.

“Scott’s probably going to have to move after this,” Flan said.

“He’s only got a month or two left on his lease.”

Less than ten minutes later the brunette stepped outside and hurried back to the Lincoln. She stuck her head in the window and handed the driver one of the two envelopes I’d given to Scott. Once she was safely back inside Scott’s apartment building, the Lincoln pulled away.

We followed the Lincoln, but we didn’t have to follow it far. Just to the newest, most luxurious, most expensive hotel in Waikiki.

Owned by the most recognizable entrepreneur in recent history, the Aloha International Hotel on Saratoga Road towered over its neighbors.

I parked the Jeep across the street.

“Think that’s where we’ll find Gavin Dengler?” Flan said.

“Seems about right, doesn’t it?”

Flan jumped out of the Jeep and followed the Lincoln on foot into the garage.

I sat alone, thinking about Oksana Sutin, about Iryna Kupchenko, about the nameless woman now sitting in Scott’s apartment a few blocks away. Lawyers thought they had it hard, worrying about where the next client would come from, how much they’d get when they settled the next case. Senior associates at large law firms shrank behind their desks when their bosses crossed the halls in front of their offices, afraid of getting chewed out, of having another motion for summary judgment dumped in their laps. And it wasn’t just lawyers, it was everyone in the working world. Legitimacy was constantly being taken for granted.

And on the other side, power was constantly being abused. Pimps such as Gavin Dengler, businessmen such as Yoshimitsu Nakagawa, they were all the same. Exploiting whoever could be exploited, whether it was renting out a woman or throwing a blue vest at a single mom and having her ring up imported garbage for minimum wage. Sometimes it seemed those with the right to complain were the only ones who never did.

I had seen the worst of humanity when I practiced law in New York, but somehow it seemed worse that all this happened here in paradise. A dirty cop in Queens never caused me to bat an eye. Here in Hawaii it seemed a far worse crime.

I popped a Percocet and waited for it to kick in, waited for that warm feeling to rush over my brain, to lighten my thoughts, improve my mood. To shut out the rest of this horrible night.

By the time the pill kicked in, Flan was back in the passenger seat of my Jeep.

He said only two words: “Penthouse suite.”