wouldn’t last forever considering the lifestyle he was now addicted to. He was in desperate need of replenishment.
“As always, you are to discuss this with no one, and you are to follow all instructions to the letter.”
“Of course.”
The line went dead.
Birk moved swiftly. He replaced the phone in its hidden pocket and went back to the bedroom. As he dressed, he shook the still-snoring prostitute awake.
“Time to go,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Huh?”
“Come on, get up. You need to get out of here.”
She looked around, puzzled, then dropped her head back onto the pillow. “I’ll get up later. I’m too ti —”
“Let’s go ,” Birk boomed, yanking her out from under the sheets by one arm.
“Oww! What’s the matter with you?”
He picked up her outfit, which included a leather miniskirt and bright red heels, and tossed it in her direction. She caught about half of it.
“Get dressed,” he said as he continued to do so himself. She didn’t obey but instead suggested an action that wasphysically impossible, and in language that was normally reserved for bathroom graffiti.
His response to this was to grab her with one hand, gather up her remaining clothes with the other, then drag her, screaming obscenities, to the door. He pushed her out into the hallway and dropped the clothes in a heap.
“You owe me five hundred bucks!” she screeched.
“You weren’t worth half that,” he said before closing the door and locking it.
The pounding began almost immediately, accompanied by more profanity. Birk ignored it and finished dressing. Then he went through the process of removing every piece of evidence that he had been here —the sheets on the bed, soap in the shower, leftovers in the fridge. This was not his unit but rather one of the many in the complex that was officially unoccupied. In spite of that, the water ran and the electricity was always on. Since the owner never bothered checking, Birk used it as a venue for his conquests. He had furnished it sparsely and changed the locks, and he could leave it behind on a moment’s notice. It was perfect. The last time the mystery man called, Birk was in Panama for over a month.
He stuffed everything into a paper bag and set it by the door. The pounding had stopped; the girl had finally given up and left.
He checked each room one last time, then went out, locked the door, and tossed the bag into the incinerator chute at the end of the hallway.
Slipping on his mirrored, wraparound sunglasses, Birk walked the six flights down rather than take the elevator. The garage at the bottom was open-air style, with no walls on theeast or west sides. There were very few other cars around. His was a blue Ford Mustang sitting alone near the exit.
As he drew closer, a BMW with mag wheels and smoked windows zoomed off the road and into the lot. Birk was close to one of the cement columns and stayed near it as the vehicle approached. It stopped with a squeal, the decorative chrome discs inside the mags still spinning. The doors flew open.
The driver appeared to be of Italian descent and in his late twenties or early thirties. He was tall and lean and moved with a confident, confrontational stride. He was dressed head to toe in black, the button-down silk shirt open about midway down his hairless, muscular chest and untucked at the waist. Several gold chains ran around his neck, and there were rings on the outer fingers of both hands.
The other person, from the passenger side, wasn’t quite so refined. Short, dumpy, dressed in filthy jeans, a gray hoodie, and a skullcap. This was a street punk. His face was ravaged by acne, and the eyes drooped in a way that was both lifeless and unsettling. His big sneakered feet clomped as he came forward, and both hands were kept in the hoodie pockets.
The driver paused, pointed at Birk, and looked back. It was then that Birk noticed the prostitute in the backseat, wrapped in a blanket. She nodded, and the
“As always, you are to discuss this with no one, and you are to follow all instructions to the letter.”
“Of course.”
The line went dead.
Birk moved swiftly. He replaced the phone in its hidden pocket and went back to the bedroom. As he dressed, he shook the still-snoring prostitute awake.
“Time to go,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Huh?”
“Come on, get up. You need to get out of here.”
She looked around, puzzled, then dropped her head back onto the pillow. “I’ll get up later. I’m too ti —”
“Let’s go ,” Birk boomed, yanking her out from under the sheets by one arm.
“Oww! What’s the matter with you?”
He picked up her outfit, which included a leather miniskirt and bright red heels, and tossed it in her direction. She caught about half of it.
“Get dressed,” he said as he continued to do so himself. She didn’t obey but instead suggested an action that wasphysically impossible, and in language that was normally reserved for bathroom graffiti.
His response to this was to grab her with one hand, gather up her remaining clothes with the other, then drag her, screaming obscenities, to the door. He pushed her out into the hallway and dropped the clothes in a heap.
“You owe me five hundred bucks!” she screeched.
“You weren’t worth half that,” he said before closing the door and locking it.
The pounding began almost immediately, accompanied by more profanity. Birk ignored it and finished dressing. Then he went through the process of removing every piece of evidence that he had been here —the sheets on the bed, soap in the shower, leftovers in the fridge. This was not his unit but rather one of the many in the complex that was officially unoccupied. In spite of that, the water ran and the electricity was always on. Since the owner never bothered checking, Birk used it as a venue for his conquests. He had furnished it sparsely and changed the locks, and he could leave it behind on a moment’s notice. It was perfect. The last time the mystery man called, Birk was in Panama for over a month.
He stuffed everything into a paper bag and set it by the door. The pounding had stopped; the girl had finally given up and left.
He checked each room one last time, then went out, locked the door, and tossed the bag into the incinerator chute at the end of the hallway.
Slipping on his mirrored, wraparound sunglasses, Birk walked the six flights down rather than take the elevator. The garage at the bottom was open-air style, with no walls on theeast or west sides. There were very few other cars around. His was a blue Ford Mustang sitting alone near the exit.
As he drew closer, a BMW with mag wheels and smoked windows zoomed off the road and into the lot. Birk was close to one of the cement columns and stayed near it as the vehicle approached. It stopped with a squeal, the decorative chrome discs inside the mags still spinning. The doors flew open.
The driver appeared to be of Italian descent and in his late twenties or early thirties. He was tall and lean and moved with a confident, confrontational stride. He was dressed head to toe in black, the button-down silk shirt open about midway down his hairless, muscular chest and untucked at the waist. Several gold chains ran around his neck, and there were rings on the outer fingers of both hands.
The other person, from the passenger side, wasn’t quite so refined. Short, dumpy, dressed in filthy jeans, a gray hoodie, and a skullcap. This was a street punk. His face was ravaged by acne, and the eyes drooped in a way that was both lifeless and unsettling. His big sneakered feet clomped as he came forward, and both hands were kept in the hoodie pockets.
The driver paused, pointed at Birk, and looked back. It was then that Birk noticed the prostitute in the backseat, wrapped in a blanket. She nodded, and the
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