I nodded my understanding, did as directed. The pat-down was thorough and immodest, and when it was finished, he had my wallet, an envelope of money, and my hotel key card. He passed the card up to the driver, who immediately pulled out a cell phone and used the number on the key to dial my hotel. I could hear the driver speaking to whoever answered, asking to speak to a guest named Matthew Twigg. While he was doing this, the man beside me was going through my wallet, checking my driver's license and credit cards.
"There's a Matthew Twigg at the Gateway Suites," the driver said, handing the key back. "No answer in his room."
The one beside me replaced everything in my wallet as he'd found it, then opened the envelope. Inside were fifty hundred-dollar bills, and he counted all of them before stuffing them back into the envelope. He handed the money up to the driver, then handed my wallet and room key back to me.
"I guess you're who you say you are, Mr. Twigg," he said.
"I don't know what to say to that," I told him.
The man smiled, friendly. "Nothing you can say. Mike, we're good to go."
Mike put the car in gear, and we started to roll. The man next to me offered his hand with a new smile, said, "Name's Bradley."
I shook his hand. "Matt."
"You can relax, Matt. It's not far."
"I'm trying not to be nervous."
"First time?"
"Kind of. I, uh… I did something similar last time I was in Eastern Europe."
"That where you got our number?"
"From a guy in the Republic of Georgia," I said.
Bradley's smile widened for a moment, almost to a laugh. "I hear that guy's a piece of work."
"To be honest, he kinda scared the shit out of me."
That earned a nod, and then Bradley sank back in his seat, apparently relaxing. I did the same, keeping one eye on what was outside the windows. We'd turned north, and, at first, I thought we were heading outside of town. We passed a New Paradise police car, parked outside of a strip mall Starbucks, then a school, then another strip mall. The driver, Mike, turned us east, onto a curving street called Oasis, and after half a mile we passed through an open gate, into a development of shiny new McMansions. Like the market in Vegas, the market in New Paradise had taken a hit. It was now dark, and I didn't see a single light burning in any of the homes.
We wound through the empty streets, finally entering a cul-de-sac with five of the largest homes I'd seen yet. Three cars were parked here on the street, a Lexus convertible, a Porsche SUV, and a large Ford 4?4. The garage door opened automatically as we approached, and Mike parked us within. The door was closing before he'd shut off the engine.
"Here we go," Bradley told me. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Twigg."
I followed him, and Mike followed me. Mike was shorter than Bradley, but with much the same look, maybe even the same age, though his hair was a light brown, not black. I also noted that Mike was wearing a pistol in a holster on his hip. He stuck with us into a marble-floored hallway that we followed into the front hall of the house. A wide staircase in the center of the room split the space neatly in half, with hallways running off on either side, and an archway leading to a sunken living room to our right, what would've been the left if we'd entered through the overlarge front doors. There was nobody in sight, and I wasn't hearing anything but a distant stereo, playing classical music, what was maybe Chopin.
Bradley took me down another hallway lined with framed black-and-white photographs, artsy pictures of children, some of them smiling, some on slides, some on swings, some simply staring into the camera. Wall sconces were placed regularly between them, throwing soft light up at the ceiling. At the end of the hall was a closed door, another sconce beside it. This one, I noted, was unlit.
Bradley knocked and opened the door enough to lean in, saying, "Mr. Twigg is here."
The voice that answered matched the one I'd heard on the telephone the previous evening.
"Send him in."
Bradley opened the door wide, closed it behind me as soon as I was through. He stayed outside.
The room was fairly large, half home-office, half library. A large wooden desk with a laptop and cell phone, one chair positioned facing it. A couch to the side, leather upholstery. Bookshelves filled with tomes of identical spines, the kinds of books bought by the yard and not by the content. Two more framed photographs, still black-and-white, but more erotically charged: one of a dramatically lit woman's bare back, with just enough neck to see the dog collar she wore; the other of a man's hips, angled so his erection was apparent, a drop of fluid falling from its tip.
The woman, Bella, wasn't what I'd expected. She might've been as young as mid-thirties, maybe as old as mid-fifties. Her hair was expensively styled in a way that made me recall Ia, Bakhar's wife, and similarly dyed, though hers was black, and Ia had favored blonde. She wore a navy blue blouse and long black skirt, and a string of pearls around her neck. Her shoes were black leather, low-heeled. Aside from the necklace, there was no other jewelry.
She moved to greet me, smiling, and offered me her hand.
"Matthew," she said. "Bella Downs, very nice to meet you in person."
"Thank you," I replied.
Bella Downs indicated the chair opposite the desk, then moved around behind it, taking a seat. Her hands stayed out of sight, and I thought of the unlit sconce outside. There was a switch, probably, something she could hit with a finger or a foot, that would turn that light on and bring Bradley and Mike running.
"No trouble finding us?" she asked.
"No, the instructions were very clear. Brad-Bradley?-has the money you told me to bring."
"It's Bradley."
"He searched me."
"Of course. We're an extremely exclusive business, Mr. Twigg. We can't allow just anyone to come through our doors, especially people we know next to nothing about."
"I understand. I just didn't think he'd search me. That's never happened before."
"We're required to be more careful here than in Eastern Europe." Bella smiled again, and I nodded, thinking that I hadn't told her that on the phone, that the car had to have been bugged, and that she must've heard our conversation on the way in. "So, what can we do for you?"
"I'm looking for a specific kind of girl," I said.
"I should hope so. What do you have in mind?"
"I'm not sure, exactly. I'd like to see what you have."
Bella Downs shook her head, still smiling, but it was less friendly, more remonstrative. "That's not how it works here, Mr. Twigg. This is a specialty location, not the Mustang Ranch. You tell me what you'd like, and I will provide it for you."
"See, I don't think I'm going to know what I'd like until I see her," I said.
The smile thinned. "That's not an option."
"I just want to see them."
"Our girls are not for display."
Behind me, I heard the door open.
"Mr. Twigg is leaving," Bella Downs said, and now there was no sign of a smile on her face at all, not even its memory. "Please take him back to his car."
"Mr. Twigg." I could hear Bradley approaching, his voice now almost directly over my shoulder. "If you'll come with me."
I looked at Bella Downs, and she stared straight back at me, and I realized I'd blown it. Somehow, someway, I'd stepped wrong, had violated protocol. I had pushed too hard, or had said yes when I should've said no, or had stayed silent when I should've spoken. I didn't know. It didn't matter.
"I'm sorry if I've offended you," I said. "I'm new at this and-"
"Obviously," Bella Downs interrupted. "And now you're leaving. Goodbye, Mr. Twigg."
I felt a hand on my shoulder, no squeeze, not very much pressure, even. Just its presence to let me know that my time here was up, and that if I wasn't willing to leave on my own, Bradley would be happy to assist me. Violently.
"My apologies," I said again, and got to my feet.