A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 9
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Sunday, February 21, 2012 – 7:17 a.m. – In Chinatown, San Francisco
Eddie Baker moves his head from side to side, taking in his surroundings. The three young men stand, one on each wall of the room, save the wall where the door is, which is behind him. They have him seated facing away from the door. It's a surreal moment, as he is untied – they didn't even bother tying him down, thankfully – and they leave the door behind him unattended, almost daring the man to try an escape.
Baker runs the prostitution trade in the North Beach area of San Francisco, just outside Chinatown off Grant Street. This morning he sits in this chair in a strange room, having been roused out of sleep far too early after a late Saturday night with his girls and clients. He has been sitting here in this chair under a form of house arrest – he's not exactly sure where he is – for just under thirty minutes now. Clearly these men are waiting for someone, or something.
Up to this point, there have been no questions. There has been no conflict. In fact, their lack of aggression is what is concerning to him right now. It's obvious that whoever is behind this knows who he is, and therefore, also knows the hell they have just brought down on themselves by taking him - their decent treatment of him notwithstanding. That said, whoever has done this doesn't seem too concerned about any repercussions or retaliation from Eddie, and that's what scares him even more. He has no idea of who would fit that description, who would so casually disrespect him.
Suddenly a voice behind him startles him back to the present.
"No need to stand up, Mr. Baker," the voice commands. "I just want to talk for a few moments."
"Oh God, I know that voice," Eddie Baker thinks to himself as he attempts – unsuccessfully – to suppress a strong shudder. The accompanying smirk from one of the goons against the wall only heightens his discomfort. Regardless, the identity of the owner of the voice behind him brings all of his previous concerns front and center. Eddie knows that Sam Carlos rarely gets involved directly with anything. Carlos has far too many people – in city hall, on the police force, in hospitals, on the streets – who are fiercely loyal to the man. They do his work for him. For him to make an appearance directly usually means something has gone horribly wrong.
The authorities incorrectly consider Sam to be a gang leader, which is how Sam likes it. In reality, that is merely the disguise he wears. He wants people to see him as nothing more than the leader of street thugs when – in truth – he is the leader of a well-oiled machine, an organization that reaches into business, into industry, into city government. An organization that takes young men and women through their college years – often paying for their tuition – into adulthood. If you don't learn a trade, if you don't become immersed into some form of an industry or government, then you are of no use to Sam Carlos.
So yeah, the fact that it is Carlos himself who shows up to ask questions directly of Eddie Baker is indeed frightening.
"I'm sure you know who I am," Carlos begins, "so let's not waste time with pleasantries. Time is something of a critical nature here, so I will be brief."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Carlos?" Eddie asks, trying to retrieve some form of control to the situation.
"Women are going missing, Mr. Baker," Carlos replies affably. He will give the man kudos for having stones in this situation. It fits with everything he has heard about the large black man.
"So I've heard," Baker acknowledges. "None of them are mine."
"Or mine," Sam agrees. "That could change."
"Is that something I should be worried about?" Baker asks, as Carlos pulls up a chair and sits in front of him.
"You'd be a fool not to," Carlos replies. "And I know you not to be a fool."
"So why exactly am I here, Mr. Carlos?" he asks, his confidence slightly increasing.
"You are here so that we can talk."
"And kidnapping me in the wee hours of the morning is your solution for us to talk about kidnapped women?"
Eddie Baker realizes his mistake before the final words leave his lips. His frustration with this morning is finally bubbling over, and the easy, nonchalant manner in which Sam Carlos is treating him is completely disarming. He quickly tries to recover but Sam holds a hand up, halting his attempt at reconciliation.
"Would you have preferred the alternative, Mr. Baker?" Sam asks, the malice now clearly evident in his voice, accompanied by a new, menacing smile. Carlos is a dangerous man when he is smiling. Baker knows this, and another involuntary shudder shakes him as Carlos continues.
"Because I can arrange that alternative. A public meeting where your enemies – who we both know monitor your every move - see you walk out of your home and into a nice restaurant where you and I have this talk. Where they begin to wonder why you are meeting with me. Where they begin to question your vision, your loyalties. Oh, Eddie, I love when – in our line of business – one's enemies begin to have these questions. Life expectancy drops significantly at that point."
"You're right, you're right," Eddie attempts, but is interrupted by Carlos once again.
"No, perhaps you are correct, Eddie. Having my friends here rouse you out of your bed and toss you into a bag and into the laundry cart and out through the garage as part of the trash . . . away from the prying eyes . . . perhaps that was far too demeaning. I shall correct this offence immediately, my friend. I shall have my friends here drop you off personally from my limo at your residence, my window rolled down, me offering a friendly wave thanking you for your business as I drive away."
Carlos struggles to refrain from laughing as he watches the look of horror on Baker's face. It's almost comical. But, as Sam originally presented, time is critical right now.
"Now, if we can move past these unnecessary pleasantries which – if memory serves – I clearly stated we did not need to cover, we can get down to business. I need a couple of answers, Mr. Baker."
"Anything you need," Baker quickly nods his head in agreement, eager to accept what he knows to be a very tentative olive branch from one of the most dangerous men in the Bay Area.
"First," Carlos begins, "someone is kidnapping women from our city. This is no secret. The purpose for the kidnappings is to traffic these women sexually."
"I've heard the same," Baker agrees. "Something about some new market developing down south of the border."
Okay, so this lines up with what Sam has heard on the street as well. So Eddie doesn't know anything more. Sam, however, is not convinced. Street rumors aside, kidnapping these women from San Francisco for transport to Mexico simply makes no sense. There is a far easier solution.
"Second question," Carlos says, filing this information away, for the moment. "Have you seen a change in your own market? Have you seen a shift in any of your key customers away from you? Any key clients suddenly spending less time with your girls?"
The slight change in Baker's face gives Sam his answer, as he files this away also.
"The rumors are false," Carlos continues, not allowing Baker to answer the question audibly. He's already answered the question with his facial expression.
"These rumors, they are a subtle misdirect, Mr. Baker. Someone has gone to great lengths to step into your business. I am surprised you have not figured that out before this moment, but I digress," he adds, twisting the knife before continuing.
"Someone is kidnapping women from our city – and this person or persons has a particular taste. Blondes. Any race, as long as they are blondes. And they are taking these women to Mexico? Ridiculous," he laughs derisively. "Far easier to sift from the golden hairs in San Diego, and drive them across the border and no one would pay attention if they took them south in a bright yellow bus. It's easier, cheaper and moved in far greater volume than we are seeing, if they sample the San Diego market."
Eddie is processing this new viewpoint, and asks the natural question. At least it seems natural to him at the time.
"How do you know that this person isn't taking women from Southern California as well as –"
"Because I make it my business to know these things, Mr. Baker," Carlos interrupts, now standing up, indicating the meeting is coming to a close. "I – once again – am stunned that you do not make it your business to know these things as well."
Carlos once again files away this new information about Baker for future use. He's a tough guy, yes, but lacks attention to detail.
"However, you have my thanks, Mr. Baker, as you have told me what I need to know – and you have done so in a very honest and forthcoming manner. I value honesty in a man. And so a word of caution, from one man to another. Open your eyes. Someone is slowly fleecing your golden goose. Were it me, I would want to know who they are."
With that, Sam Carlos leaves, his suspicions confirmed. Word on the street is that these women have been taken down south. However, the one man whose business thrives – depends – on rich men, and sometimes women, having a particular taste and the dollars to spend for those tastes – that man is feeling a pinch on his business. And his business is here, in the city. So whoever is taking these women wants people to believe that these women have been taking south, when in fact, they are still here.
Which will make finding these women much easier.
Minutes later, Carlos is in his limo parked in a back alley off Chinatown and in motion. He reaches into his suit jacket pocket, retrieving his phone, quickly hitting a contact, smiling as he does. He gives it a few rings, before his smile broadens.
"Hello Jennifer."
"A bit early even for you, isn't it Sam?" she replies groggily.
"You are the one with sleep dripping from your voice," he counters. "I remember that sound well."
"I'm sure you didn't wake me out of a nice dream for a walk down memory lane, Sam," she offers with a yawn. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, Jen. It's what I can do for you. Are you hungry?"
"Always," she chuckles.
"Ah, I remember that also. Same diner, Union Square?"
"Give me forty five minutes," she tells him, now swinging her legs out across the bed and onto the floor.
"See you then," Sam tells her.
"Sam?"
"Yes, Jen."
"Thank you."
"Let's hear what I have to say first. I think you will be far happier than just 'thank you.'"
With that, Sam hangs up, and punches in another contact. This time the phone rings twice before a second groggy voice answers.
"Beckett," she answers almost by habit.
"Ah, Katie, so official," he chuckles.
"Sam?" she replies with surprise, wondering exactly how Sam Carlos has her cell phone. She makes a mental note to slap Jennifer Blackard upside her head as she speaks. She sits up straight in the bed, tapping the sleeping form next to her.
"Much as I would love to chat with you, Kate, it is your better half who I suspect is asleep next to you that is of interest to me. Can you awaken him?"
"Seriously?" she asks, surprised.
"Seriously," he replies, playing their old word game. "Ask him if he can meet me this afternoon at – oh, let's say 1pm," he says as he glances at his watch, mentally allocating time for breakfast with Jennifer Blackard.
She places a hand over the phone, muffling her conversation with Castle.
"Babe?" she says, ready to shake him but noticing he is already stirring, eyes opening.
"Who is it?" he asks.
"Sam Carlos," she tells him, watching him come to immediate attention. She has told him enough about Sam Carlos for him to realize that this isn't a Sunday church chat.
"What does he want?" he asks.
"Actually . . . he wants you," she tells him, and chuckles at the eyebrow raise he gives her. "Wants to sit down with you at one o'clock this afternoon."
"Me?" he asks again.
"Very clear about it, Rick," she smiles. "I'll be honest, I don't know what it means – but Sam is as master of using resources. I would suspect he wants a favor from you."
"Is that good news or bad news?" he laughs, rubbing his hands through his head. "Where?"
She removes her hand, now focusing the conversation back on Carlos on the other end.
"Where?"
"His call," Sam says quickly.
Rather than continue as the intermediary, Kate simply hands Castle the phone. His bug-eyed response once again brings her to laughter.
"This is Richard Castle," he states, trying desperately to sound as if he has been awake for hours.
"Mr. Castle," Sam begins. "Nice to meet you – and I look forward to a more formal and normal meeting this afternoon. I was asking Kate where we can meet. It is my request, so the choice of location is yours."
"How about my house?" Castle replies, and now has to stifle his own chuckle as he sees the look of horror on Kate Beckett's face.
Carlos, for his part, smiles inwardly. Very bold, inviting a man such as Sam Carlos into your home.
"Oh Kate, I like him already," Carlos thinks to himself as he answers.
"That will be fine, Mr. Castle."
"Great," Castle replies. "Easiest way to get here is to –"
"No need, Mr. Castle," Carlos smiles, knowing he is getting ready to rock the author/philanthropist a bit. "I know where you live."
With that, Carlos hangs up, knowing the tiny little bomb he has just tossed into the Castle home this morning. As Kate Beckett has surmised, Carlos is – if nothing else – a master of using the resources available to him. And right now, he needs a little out-of-the-box thinking that a certain mystery writer might be able to provide.