“WHERE ARE we going?” Charlotte asks from the back seat. Or at least that’s the name they gave her. Disco can’t remember her real name anymore. He remembers when she arrived in Chicago, six years ago, from Romania. They had to drag her out of the van, shivering and scared, and shoot her up with tranquilizers just to shut her the fuck up.
She was, what, eighteen then? She’s getting old now anyway.
Nicolas, driving, turns off 122nd Street into the old abandoned industrial park.
“This is a personal visit to a special client,” Disco tells her. “There are apartments here.” He tries to sound calm. He doesn’t feel calm, not after that phone call from Dennis Porter.
Nicolas drives past the usual spot, pulls up to the rear of one of the interconnected buildings, the one by the old incinerator.
Nicolas gets out, opens the back door for Charlotte. Together, they walk up to the heavy metal door. Nicolas unlocks it, and they go inside.
Disco stays outside, dials his phone.
Inside the building, behind the heavy door, the first whump of contact, followed by a shriek of pain from Charlotte. Disco peeks through the small window. Charlotte is down, her feet trying to gain purchase on the linoleum floor, her hands out in front of her face in defense, Nicolas standing over her, raising his fist, raining down blow after blow.
She’s probably wondering what in the hell is going on. She doesn’t know the test results. Disco gets them straight from the doctor they use for the girls’ monthly STD tests. Charlotte, unfortunately, came back positive. Can’t run a high-end business if the girls aren’t clean. So he not only has to get rid of Charlotte, he also has to scrub her clients from the list; it’s impossible to know which one gave her herpes.
Oh, well. He got six good years out of her. That’s more than most.
One last garbled cry from Charlotte. She’ll be quiet from here on out.
Porter answers on the third ring. “We can talk now,” says Disco.
“SOS is still trying to ID your dead prostitute from K-Town. One of ’em went back to the house where the shooting happened, looking for info.”
“And did he find anything?”
“Sounds like no. He got interrupted, I’m hearing. Is there anything to find?”
“I cannot know this,” says Disco. “Did your people not clean this up? That is your job, yes?”
Dead air. For a moment, Disco thinks the signal’s lost. He peeks through the window again. Charlotte’s body is limp, Nicolas straddling her, hands on her throat, finishing her off.
“First off,” says Porter, “I didn’t know you were gonna use that house for a fuckin’ shooting gallery. I wouldn’t have signed up for that.”
Which is why I didn’t tell you, Disco thinks.
“And number two, the house was never swept. Not for that, at least. The Jane Doe was not the first priority. The solve was.”
“Then sweep it now.”
“No. My people have already stuck their necks out way too far. My guy put down a witness for you. You got any idea what kinda risk that put him in?”
“I don’t care. You are not the only one taking risk.”
“Do it yourself,” says Porter. “You wanna clean up that house, do it your fuckin’ self. And you better do it fast.”