Page 54 of Shadows of Justice

She reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a clear baggie, opening it and pouring out a small pile of the white powder onto the ridge of her thumb. She offers it to the giant and he grins, leaning in to snort it off of her hand. She refills her thumb from the baggie and snorts another pile after him, grinning devilishly at me the whole time.

She’s definitely enjoying this. I resist rolling my eyes.

Bull Dog eyes me, and I smile and wave daintily at him. “Who’s your friend?” he asks, and she moves aside.

Bull Dog crowds me, but I don’t shy away. He cups my ass, and everything in my body revolts against his touch, but instead of poking his eyes out and hitting his “off switch” with my knee, I raise a hand and run my nails down his chest. He grins and I force a grin back, wishing I’d downed at least three more drinks before this.

“You’re a sexy gatita, aren’t you?” Bull Dog says, his overly-spritzed cologne making my eyes water. I think he just called me a little cat? I’ve really got to learn more Spanish.

“The Dogs are gonna love you,” he says. “You gonna be scared if we bite?”

I scrunch my nose and chomp my teeth playfully in the air and he chuckles, gripping my ass so hard I know it’s going to bruise. Suddenly, he grabs my jaw, the spot where I hit my face with the tenderizer screaming in pain underneath his hold.

“You’ve got pretty teeth for a whore,” Bull Dog says suspiciously with his eyes on my mouth, the chemical smell of coke on his breath wafting in my face.

My mind scrambles, trying to think of an excuse to account for a good dental plan on a prostitute, when Sugar’s voice behind him pulls both our attentions.

“She’s kinda green, Bullie Boy,” she says. “Used to be a cheerleader at State until daddy’s money dried up when he went to prison. I found her on Sixth begging for change with a sign. Isn’t that right?”

Oh, she’s good.

“Mmhmm,” I murmur, and Bull Dog releases my face. I can’t help the whimper that escapes me when he does, the throbbing in my jaw making my eyes sting.

“You got a name, puta?” Bull Dog asks me.

Sugar and I share a look over his shoulder, and I realize we hadn’t established a cover name for me. I say the first name that comes to mind.

“Esmeralda.”

I shoot my last shot of whiskey and flag the bartender down for another so that I don’t have to look into his hungry eyes anymore. He grunts and goes back to fondling Sugar, switching back and forth between Spanish and English while he talks about what he wants to do with each of her holes. She leans into every touch, moaning and sighing right on cue like she’s eating up every moment and not just in it for the money.

“I gotta pee,” I mumble in her ear, and leave while Bull Dog is distracted.

I avoid looking at the bathrooms on my left, pretending not to see them. Instead, I head toward the back, weaving through the crowd while keeping my eyes down. Random paws of my ass and stomach leave the whiskey turning sour in my gut, but I keep my sultry smile fixed to my face and keep walking. Once I get past the threshold I have a clear view of the hallway, water-stained carpet and paint peeling off the walls. It smells like mildew and piss, and it’s somehow even darker back here.

I pass a door on my left, a flickering light showing through the sliver at the bottom. The sounds of a table scraping across the floor filter out, along with the breathy moans of a woman being fucked, followed by a smack and a yelp.

I keep going, my eyes adjusted as well as they can be, which is still hardly enough to see where I’m going. I reach the stairs and climb the three steps up to the small landing, spotting a dark stain on the steps that no one bothered to clean.

Maybe it was Kool-Aid?

My heart in my throat, I put my fingers on the cold metal of the door and push. It swings in slightly—and thankfully—silently. I look behind me once more and make sure no one has seen me, and then open it wider and slip inside.

It’s a large storeroom lit with blinking fluorescent lights. There are rows and rows of shelving that house liquor, beer, juice mixers, and bar supplies. As I go farther in there’s a door ajar to my left, a cramped and disheveled office space inside. The rows of shelves hold boxes of files, VIP buckets, hooker heels, old speakers, mics, and electrical equipment. Everything smells like mold and stale alcohol and a chill creeps up my spine, at both the lack of clothing on my body and my nerves.

I turn down an aisle that has a mop and bucket, cleaning supplies, and a box labeled “Holiday Shit.” There are other unlabeled boxes as well, but what catches my attention are the plastic screw top jars that are in a packing crate at the very end. With the state of all the other junk in this room they stand out—gleaming and brand new.

The labels have been ripped off, but considering the research that I did on iron oxide before I came here, I’m confident this is what I’m looking for.

I suddenly hear a door open and startle. Spanish filters to me from across the echoey room, and I tiptoe to the edge of the aisle to peer around the corner.

Three men have come through the door. There’s a wiry American I don’t recognize wearing a bad suit, and the other two are Hispanic—in tall tees, glinting jewelry, and menacing tattoos. The first is familiar to me as Tomás Negron, or “T-Bone,” with a shock of greasy, slicked back hair and a spare tire belly.

The sight of the third man makes it exceptionally hard to breathe.

Thiago “Lockjaw” Márquez, or Trismo.

Trismo smiles at something T-Bone says, and I can see his jewel-encrusted teeth that are all filed to points. His shaved head has a skull tattooed on top, barbed wire inked down his temples, and teardrops marked under his eye. His throat, chest, and every other patch of skin I can see is also decorated in threatening artwork, his exterior a testament to the darkness festering on the inside. He’s massive—the sort of bulk one seeks out when you deal in blood for a living.

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