It makes the most sense to start our search for Loviise with the most popular whore bars. There aren’t many, only a couple upscale ones at present, and I’m guessing their owners know far more about prostitution in Helsinki-who does what, who offers what services, who pimps, who the organized-crime figures are behind the slave trade-than the police who monitor such things.
Problems present themselves. There are no good reasons for the staff or prostitutes in the clubs to share such information with us, but many reasons why they shouldn’t. And when we announce we’re looking for a particular girl, after we leave, the phone lines will crackle red hot as everyone in the trade is informed, then whoever has Loviise will make her and themselves scarce until we give up and go away. I guess I just have to figure it out as we go along.
“Let’s go downtown and start with Whitechapel,” I say.
It’s fashionable among a certain set, expensive and-most relevant to our task-high exposure, so there’s not a chance of finding Loviise there. But it’s the city’s most popular whore bar, and as such, I hope the best source for information. The name Whitechapel comes from the district in London where Jack the Ripper murdered prostitutes. Quaint.
We’re silent for a while on the ride over. I know Sweetness, something is on his mind. He works up to it and spits it out. “Jenna knows I still drink?”
“You both drink like pigs in the evening, so she doesn’t have much room to criticize, but you’re asking me if she knows you drink all day long. The answer is yes.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Not a word. We all know, but we don’t talk about it. You’re an alcoholic and you can’t hide it. Why is it you alkies always think your breath doesn’t stink like booze if you drink vodka? I promise you, it does. You were a hard drinker and she fell in love with you anyway. In fact, I think she’s glad you drink. It gives her an excuse to booze along with you at night and call it ‘partying.’ But you promised to stop drinking during the day and to quit carrying that flask. You lied to her. My guess is that disappoints and disturbs her.”
He doesn’t comment, just drives in silence. The truth wounded him.
My phone is on quiet but vibrates. It’s Milo. My heart thuds. Anxiety about Kate renews itself. “Where are you?” I ask.
It’s a video call. His face looks haggard and grim. He whispers. “I’m on the front porch of the address you gave me, crouched down beneath the window beside the front door. You can look in for yourself.” He holds the phone up and angles it so I can see through a gap in sheer tattered curtains. I see a distorted image of Kate and her brother. They’re sitting together on a couch that’s falling apart. I see a bottle of booze and two half-empty glasses on the coffee table in front of them.
Milo moves the phone and tells me to wait a minute. “I walked away from the house,” he says, “so we can talk.”
“So talk.”
“I got off the plane, rented a car and came straight here. John is a junkie. He’s speedballing. In the morning, he buys an eight ball each of cocaine and heroin, sells off most of it and keeps the rest to feed his own habit. Kate isn’t using drugs, but is drinking hard. I heard her harangue him about the dope, and of course he swore to stop soon, but we both know that’s never going to happen.”
“Is he snorting or on the spike?”
“Snorting, but I think he’s using more since Kate got here. She’s been to the ATM and given him money a couple times. Since now he has her resources at his disposal, he has no reason to show restraint.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“She cries a lot.”
I feel longing and sadness. “Have you figured out how to get her home?”
“I’ll give her two choices. She can stay and I can kill John, or she can come with me and I get John into rehab. I get John to help me encourage her by letting him know the rehab is a farce. I get him a large quantity of dope on the condition that he cut off contact with her. He’s in bad shape. He’d cut her throat for the free dope.”
“It’s a solid plan,” I say.
“I thought so. And don’t call me. I know this is hard on you, but trust me to deal with it, and I’ll get in touch when there’s something worth telling you.”
“OK,” I say, and he rings off before I can thank him.
Sweetness looks over at me with concern. “What’s the situation?”
“Tenuous at best,” I answer, and say no more. I feel like hurting someone.
• • •
WHITECHAPEL. A misnomer for this establishment. When the infamous murders were being carried out in 1888, the district was a dangerous and impoverished area of London. This club, though, features a red carpet and two doormen dressed in the best Victorian style: dark tailcoats and trousers, waistcoats, white bow ties, winged-collar shirts and top hats.
One of them queries us before letting us in. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but would you mind opening your jackets for me?”
“Yes,” I say, “we would.”
“It’s unseasonably warm for your jackets, and the bulges under them suggest you’re both packing. We don’t allow firearms in the club.”
I show him my police card. “We’re exceptions to the rule.”
With a gesture of his arm, he ushers us in.
The decor is garish authentic. Reproductions of period paintings hang against floral wallpaper. The overabundant furniture is a mishmash of Gothic, Tudor, Elizabethan and Rococo. It clashes miserably with a stage that has a dance pole for stripping in the center of it. The bartenders also wear period dress, waistcoats and bow ties. A girl fit for any centerfold undulates on the stage, goes through a series of the classic stripper moves, raises one leg up the pole in a standing split, smacks her own ass and licks her shin.
It’s early yet, the crowd thin. A few patrons throw wadded-up bills on the stage. Some girls sit at tables and nurse drinks. All are stunning, won’t come cheap. It’s clear that Whitechapel caters to an exclusive and upscale clientele.
We go to the bar and I ask to see an owner.
“On what business?”
I show my police card again. “Mind your own fucking business.”
The owners aren’t in.
“Hey, pomo,” Sweetness says, “aren’t bartenders required to have their alcohol serving certification with them, and if the place serves food-and this place has a small menu-also a restaurant hygiene qualification certification?”
“Yes, they are,” I answer. I ask the bartender. “May I see yours?”
He purses his lips, flustered. “Offhand, I don’t know where they are. I’m certified, though, and we have them all on file here somewhere.”
“‘Somewhere’ doesn’t cut the ice. And I don’t see the alcoholic beverage license on display either. I think, in the interest of your patrons, it would be best to stop serving until all these things can be sorted out. It wouldn’t do to have someone get salmonella. There are other several issues to address as well, but I haven’t decided what they are yet. They’ll come to me by and by.”
The bartender gives in, exasperated. “Do you want to see the Ripper or the Raper?”
“Excuse me?”
He sighs like I’m stupid. “The owners are the Harper brothers, commonly known as Jack the Ripper and Mack the Raper.”
“Gee, they sound so amiable that I’m sure I’d like to be friends with both of them. It’s hard to choose. I guess I should speak to both the Ripper and the Raper.”
He makes a call and asks us to follow him. We go through the kitchen to the office. The door is open and we walk in. It’s seedy, has cheap, battered white office furniture that looks like it came from IKEA. An old gray couch has quite a few stains that look suspiciously like semen.