Poor Little Bitch Girl (44 page)

Mary Hart was sitting outside on a location shoot with Shia LaBeouf, questioning the young actor about his love-life.

Idly Annabelle watched them interact until a slew of commercials hit the screen.

Back from commercials, a somber-faced Mark Steines announced that he had a breaking news story, and as he launched into it, Annabelle realized that he was speaking about her mother’s murder. Apparently, there had been an arrest.

Sitting up straight, she immediately called for Frankie. Then she remembered he was out, securing their future.

Damn. She needed to speak with him. And she needed to speak with him now.

* * *

“Simon – you limey sonofabitch,” Fanny roared into her pink old-fashioned phone perched atop her mirrored desk. Her words were said with a mixture of cheery affection and thinly veiled venom. “What’s kickin’ between
your
big balls today?”

“Fanny Bernstein,” Simon Waitrose, Editor of
Truth & Fact
, stated. “
My
balls are doing fine. How about
yours
, luv? Still big and bouncy?”

“That’s my tits, you horny bastard,” Fanny cackled.

“How could I ever forget?”

“You got that right, sleaze-bag. Once seen, never forgotten.”

This entire conversation was being played out on speaker-phone. Frankie and Rick were Fanny’s attentive audience.

Frankie was impressed that she knew exactly who to call, and that she had the man’s home number, because it was three hours later in New York.

“I presume I must’ve insulted one of your clients,” Simon Waitrose went on. “Right, luv? ’Cause why else would the lady herself be calling, interrupting my dinner with a lovely young thing.”

“A date with another hooker, Simon?” Fanny said caustically, winking at her captive audience. “Is she one of Frankie Romano’s girls?”

“Oh Jesus! Don’t tell me Frankie Romano is your client,” Simon groaned.

“Yes, dear. So I wanna know who gave you the story? And you’d better e-mail me part two, otherwise there’ll be a big fat juicy lawsuit writhing its way up your skinny English ass.”

“Damnit, Fanny,” Simon objected, “every word we printed is the truth.”

“Sure it is, dollface,” Fanny sing-songed. “An’
you
don’t use Viagra.”

“What?”

“E-mail me part two, then we’ll talk.”

She hung up with a satisfied smirk, opened her desk drawer and removed a stack of faxes which she passed across the desk to Frankie.

“Part two,” she said. “Read it, then get down on your knees an’ thank me.”

“But didn’t you just ask him to send you part two?” Rick said, sweating, because Fanny refused to put on the air conditioning. She insisted her office remain at 85 degrees at all times.

“Simon’s main assistant resides in my back pocket – if y’know what I mean,” she said, with another knowing wink. “Soon as you told me why we were having this meeting, I got onto it. Simon Waitrose deserves to shift his ass for the deal I’m about to offer him.”

Frankie was busy reading part two. All of a sudden he had relatives and friends he never knew existed; there were photos of him as a kid and quotes from his dad – the fucking loser who used to beat the crap out of him, and never came looking when he took off at the age of fifteen.

“I don’t believe this shit,” he said, angrily throwing the faxes back on her desk. “I’ve never heard of any of these assholes, claimin’ they were at school with me. As for my dad – we haven’t spoken in ten years.”

“Not to worry, dollface,” Fanny said. “I’ll get it stopped. Simon owes me a big one. And in return, after the exclusives with the respectable media – and I use the word ‘respectable’ loosely – we’ll throw him a bone. A one-on-one sitdown with Annabelle. So tell me, dollface, where
is
your partner in the selling-flesh business?”

“At the hotel,” Frankie said. “We’re hiding out so Ralph doesn’t get hold of her. We’ve heard he’s in a raging fury and wants to bury my ass.”

“Ah . . . Ralphie,” Fanny sighed, a faraway gleam in her eyes. “Had him when I was fifteen and a virgin. It was a one-night stand. He spotted me at a party, sent his stand-in over to see if my tits were real, then took me upstairs and had his way with me.” She guffawed at the memory. “Nice cock. Not big enough for me, though.”

Once again Frankie was speechless.

F
at Black Pussies
wasn’t his favorite porno, but it was still turning Benito on. He started thinking about jacking off since Rosa wasn’t around to service him. No food. No pussy. What the fuck was a man supposed to do to keep himself entertained?

Then it occurred to him that there was a perfectly workable pussy lying on his bed. A pussy that was good enough for a Senator. And if he jammed his big fat dick into that pussy – maybe it would shift the baby she was carrying, and everyone could go home happy.

Yeah. He’d blindfold her, fuck her, give her a whiff of chloroform, stick her in the trunk of his car, and drop her off on a street corner far enough away that she could never lead anyone back to his cousin’s house.

Screw Rosa. He didn’t need her. He’d solved the problem all on his own.

He moved toward the door of the bedroom and opened it an inch. The room was dark enough, but he could make out his victim moving around on the bed.

Then, just as he was about to fling the door wide open and take his hard-on into the bedroom, the phone rang.

Shit! Bad timing! But in case it was business, he closed the door and picked up the phone.

It was big brother Ramirez.

* * *

For one long moment Carolyn was completely paralyzed. Fear crept over her like a shroud of fog, and she found herself unable to move. She’d almost freed herself, then someone had started to open the door. A phone rang, and whoever was there closed the door and went away.

Now she was too scared to run.

Get it together!
her inner voice cried out in her head.
At least make an attempt to find a way out of this hellhole. Do it! Do it now!

Filled with apprehension, she broke the final tie and forced herself to put her feet on the floor. Her shoes were gone, they must’ve fallen off when she was first taken. But having no shoes was the least of her problems.

Shaking, she got off the bed, rushed toward the window and what she hoped and prayed would soon be freedom.

* * *

“Fuck you!” Benito screamed into the phone. “I ain’t listenin’ to anything ya gotta say.”

“Calm down, my brother,” Ramirez replied. “All I’m asking is that you come to the center tomorrow and speak with me.”

“Why th’fuck I wanna do that?” Benito yelled.

“Word on the street is that you’re a target,” Ramirez said calmly. “And I can help you.”

“Don’ fuck with me just ’cuz ya think ya King of the fuckin’ Do-gooders,” Benito sneered. “I got news – anybody get near me, they seein’ a war on their mo-fuckin’ hands. I got an army behind me.”

“What good an army do you if someone put a bullet in your head?” Ramirez said, the voice of reason. “No army gonna save you then.”

“Fuck you!” Benito screamed again, before slamming down the phone.

His brother drove him loco, always trying to persuade him to come to the center and repent his ways. Last time he’d gone there he’d almost got shot leaving the place. Rosa’s fuckin’ baby daddy again. It was time he reversed the situation and blew the mo’fuckin’ prick away.

He began going over his conversation with his brother. It wouldn’t surprise him if Ramirez was trying to set him up. Get rid of him, so that under the guise of Mister Clean, Ramirez could move in and take over his lucrative drug-running business.

Yeah, that was it. Ramirez was jealous, he wanted what was his.

Too bad. Big brother was getting nothing.

* * *

Upon reaching the window, Carolyn frantically dragged the torn covering aside. Outside it was pitch black. She could see nothing.

The fear she felt was all the way in her throat. Her heart was pounding out of control. She felt sick to her stomach and dizzy.

The window itself opened outwards with a rusty handle. There was no lock and she knew it would be tight, but with a little luck she could squeeze through the limited space. She had to.

Random thoughts flooded her brain.

What if her captors came in the room and pulled her back inside when she was halfway through the window?

What if they were so mad they beat her up, or even
killed
her?

As frightened as she was, there was no going back.

Somehow or other, she began her escape.

W
e were on our way to the Vegas airport, Bobby and I. When I’d told him about my emergency, he’d insisted on flying me to Washington in his plane in spite of my objections. Then he decided he’d better come with me in case I required his assistance in any way.

What was I supposed to do? The text from George Henderson was a desperate cry for help, and although George wasn’t asking me to head for Washington, where he and his wife already were, I knew that I had to go. And if the fastest way to get there was on Bobby’s plane, so be it.

Carolyn was missing – not in a
“gone away for a few days”
kind of way, but in a sinister
“she’s been abducted”
kind of way. And everybody who has ever watched the news knows exactly what
that
means.

Missing girl more often than not equals rape and murder.

According to George, the police had found Carolyn’s car abandoned in a remote spot with the driver’s door open, one of her shoes lying on the ground. She had not turned up at work, missed an arranged breakfast with a neighbor, and had not been seen since noon on Tuesday when she’d left the office for a supposed dental appointment. When contacted, her dentist said there
was
no appointment.

I had no idea what I could do to help, but Carolyn was my best friend, and I knew I had to be there, if only to lend moral support to her parents.

I called Felix on my way to the airport to give him a heads up.

“I don’t understand what’s the matter with you lately,” Felix snapped, his usual charming self. “Do you not care about your job?”

This hurt, coming from Felix. Of course I cared. In all the time I’d worked at Saunders, Fields, Simmons & Johnson, I’d always put my job first. Just ask Josh.

Once again I wondered if the time had come to think about moving on. I’m sure I could score an excellent position elsewhere.

I then phoned my next-door neighbor to let him know I would not be back for a few days, and could he keep Amy Wine-house for me? “She’s fine,” he assured me. “Not to worry.”

As soon as I was off the phone, Bobby jumped on my case. “Everything okay?” he asked, being annoyingly solicitous – like
that
was going to make me forget Zeena’s revealing little speech, a speech I had not mentioned, nor had he.