“I don’t miss you either, but we gotta talk. Since you can’t be trusted and don’t hesitate to sacrifice your clients, I’m assuming your phone is tapped and the cops are listening.”
“Nope.”
“You’re a liar, Rudd.”
“Fine, hang up and don’t call me back.”
“Not that simple. We gotta talk. That girl is alive, Rudd, and bad things are going on.”
“I don’t care.”
“There’s an all-night pharmacy at the corner of Preston and Fifteenth. Buy some shaving cream. Behind a can of Gillette Menthol you’ll find a small black phone, prepaid. Take it but don’t get caught shoplifting. Call the number on the screen. It’s me. I’ll wait thirty minutes, then I’m leaving town. Got it, Rudd?”
“No, I’m not playing this time, Swanger.”
“The girl is alive, Rudd, and you can bring her back. Just like you rescued your kid, now you can be the real hero. If not, she’ll be dead in a year. It’s all you, buddy.”
“Why should I believe you, Swanger?”
“Because I know the truth. I may not always tell the truth, but I know what’s going on with the Kemp girl. It ain’t pretty. Come on, Rudd, play along. Don’t call your thug and don’t use that goofy U-Haul van. Seriously? What kind of lawyer are you?”
The line goes dead and I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. If Arch Swanger is on the run, and I know for a fact that he is because he’s number one on our cops’ most wanted list, Link Scanlon being number two, then how in the world could he know that I’m buzzing around town these days in a rented van? And how could he purchase and hide a prepaid cell phone?
Twenty minutes later I park in front of the pharmacy and wait until two winos move away from the front door. This is a sketchy part of town and it’s not clear why this company, a national chain, would select this neighborhood for an all-night drugstore. I walk inside and see no one except for the clerk, who’s flipping through a tabloid. I find the shaving cream and the phone, which I quickly stick into a pocket. I pay for the shaving cream, and as I drive away I punch in the number.
Swanger answers with “Just keep driving. Hit the interstate and go north.”
“To where, Swanger?”
“To me. I want to look you in the eyes and ask you why you told the cops where I buried the girl.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You will.”
“Why did you lie, Swanger?”
“It was just a test to see if you can be trusted. Obviously you cannot. I want to know why.”
“And I want to know why you can’t leave me alone.”
“Because I need a lawyer, Rudd, plain and simple. What am I supposed to do? Take the elevator up to the fortieth floor and confide in a guy in a black suit who charges a thousand bucks an hour? Or maybe call one of those bozos you see on the billboards begging for bankruptcies and car wrecks? I need a real guy from the streets, Rudd, a real slimeball who knows how to play dirty. Right now you’re the man.”
“No I’m not.”
“Take the White Bluff exit off the interstate and go east for two miles. There’s an all-night burger joint currently advertising a double-patty melt with real Velveeta cheese. Yum-yum. I’ll watch you go in and take a seat. I’ll make sure you’re alone and nobody’s following you. When I walk in you won’t recognize me at first.”
“I’ll be packing some heat, Swanger, permit and all, and I know how to use it. Nothing funny, okay?”
“No need for that, I swear.”
“Swear all you want to, but I don’t believe a word you say.”
“Makes two of us.”
There is a lack of ventilation and the air is thick with the smell of greasy burgers and fries. I buy a coffee and sit at a table in the center for ten minutes as two drunk teenagers in a booth giggle and talk with their mouths full. In a far corner an obese, elderly couple gorge themselves as if they’ll never see food again. Part of this joint’s marketing brilliance is that the entire menu is half price from midnight to 6:00 a.m. That and the Velveeta.
A man in a brown UPS uniform enters and does not look around. He buys a soft drink and some fries and is suddenly seated across from me. Behind round frameless glasses I finally recognize Swanger’s eyes. “Glad you could make it,” he says, barely audible.
“A real pleasure,” I say. “Cute uniform.”
“It works. Here’s what’s happening, Rudd. Jiliana Kemp is very much alive but I’m sure she wishes she were dead. She had her baby a few months back. They sold it for fifty thousand bucks, on the high end. The range, I’m told, is twenty-five to fifty, for a little Caucasian thing from good stock. The darker ones go cheaper.”
“Who is they?”
“We’ll get to it in a minute. Right now she’s working long hours as a stripper and hooker in a sex club a thousand miles away. She’s basically a slave, owned by some nasty types who’ve got her hooked on heroin. That’s why she can’t leave and that’s why she’ll do whatever she’s told. Don’t suppose you’ve ever dealt with human trafficking?”
“No.”
“Don’t ask how I got involved. A long sad story.”
“I really don’t care, Swanger. I’d like to help the girl but I’m not sticking my nose into it. You said you needed a lawyer.”
