Sometime during the week, Jack called Brittany, changing their plans. Instead of next Monday, they were to meet at the same motel that coming Saturday, at eight o'clock that evening. She wasn't to rent a room, but to pull around back and wait for him in her car.
That Saturday evening, she waited as directed, and when Jack finally showed, he demanded her keys, saying he would drive.
While driving out of the hotel parking lot, he asked, "What did you tell Santos?"
"I told him I was going to one of those all day spas, the kind where you stay over. Yoga, facials, and steam baths all day and night long. You should have seen his eyes light up when I told him I wouldn't be home until tomorrow. He didn't even ask the name of spa or where it's located. I bet he's out cruising for whores as we speak."
Jack took it easy on the city streets.
After about fifteen minutes of driving, it looked like they were heading into the warehouse district. She finally asked, "Where are we going?"
Jack didn't answer directly, asking instead, "You have the money?"
Brittany was flummoxed, "I thought you agreed you'd wait until I got a job."
"I said, 'I'd see.' Did you get a job?"
"No," she answered, dejected, "But I'm trying."
Jack smiled at her, and said, sarcastically, "Hard to believe no one wants to pay you three grand a week typing memos and making coffee."
After his rebuke, both fell into a deep silence. It was another five minutes before Jack pulled up in front of a large warehouse. Brittany saw another fifteen to twenty cars of various makes, models, and conditions, parked around the front entrance.
"What's this place?" she asked, nervously.
Jack didn't answer. Keeping her keys, he held the car door open for her, while saying, "Follow me."
He led Brittany through a large warehouse. Although it was gloomy and dark, with only an occasional overhead bulb to illuminate the pathway, she could see numerous rows of shelving stacked with boxes. As they continued deeper into the structure, brighter lights became apparent ahead of her, and she began to hear the sounds of muffled talking and laughter.
When they reached their destination, Brittany saw a large bed in the middle of the floor. Five or six, bright halogen lamps surrounded the bed, bathing it in stark, white light. There were about fifteen people milling around. One of them was adjusting a camera set up on tripod on one side of the bed. Another person was carrying a portable camera unit. The rest of the gathering were talking amongst themselves and smoking. There was one other woman besides Brittany. She was sitting off by herself, away from the others, smoking a cigarette. Dressed in short shorts, and wearing a flimsy tube top, she had her arms wrapped tightly about her and against the cool dampness of the building.
Brittany pulled on Jack's arm, "What is all this?"
"You asked how you could earn more money. Well, this is one way. Hush now."
Just then, Brittany heard the other woman yell, "Hey Munch, can I get under the fucking lights now? It's fucking cold in here."
From somewhere within the crowd of loiterers, she heard a man's clear voice above the loud murmurings of the crowd, "Not yet baby, we still have some prep work to do, and I don't want you getting in the way."
"Well hurry the fuck up, will you. My tits are turning blue."
"Munch," Jack called over to the crowd, "Get your dwarf ass over here."
From behind the crowd, a diminutive man stepped out wearing a large smile. He was a little taller than Brittany, so technically, he wasn't really a dwarf; however, he had played one in fetish movies in his younger days. Now, he mostly produced low-budget porn. His real name was Raoul Price, but most people knew him as the Munchkin, or Munch for short—pun intended.
Munch and Jack shook hands, while Munch joked, "Jack, about time you got here. You still having problems with cock breath?"
Jack responded, sarcastically, "Fuck you, Munch, and watch the language. There's a lady present."
Munch turned to Brittany, giving her the once over with a deep set of bedroom eyes. When he stuck out his hand at her as a welcome, Brittany took it hesitantly, fearing he might be contagious.
After they shook hands, he said with a wink, "Well, yes you do, Jack. You know a very pretty lady, and by the size of her, she's just my type."
Jack quipped, "I figured you could use a break from standing on stepladders in order to eat out your bitches." Jack shifted away from the jovial for a moment, as his voice became more serious, "Speaking of type, I'm sorry about what happened to Ashante."
Munch suddenly looked dejected. His eyes watered, as he said, "Yeah, it hit everyone hard. To die so young is one thing, but to be tossed out like trash...the fucker." He paused for a moment to wipe his eyes and put on a brave smile before finishing, "I could never keep her off the streets, Jack. No matter how much work I gave her, or how much I paid her, she kept selling tail. I suspect it's what got her killed in the end. Is it true that that Wilson asshole did it? I mean, I knew the guy. He didn't seem the type that could do murder. Something just doesn't seem kosher about the whole fucking thing."
Hearing Jack and Munch talking about Ashante and Kellen reaffirmed Jack's truthful telling of the story in her mind. If she harbored any lingering doubts about what Jack had said concerning Santos' direct involvement in the prostitute's death, they vanished upon seeing Munch's reaction.
Jack shook his head and looked over at Brittany before answering, "I don't know, Munch. Kellen seemed clean of murder as far as I was concerned, but Ashante wasn't my case. So who knows?" Then, after patting Munch on the back in a consoling manner, he slipped back into business mode. Pointing over at the group of men who were still loitering about and smoking, he asked Munch, "Is that them?"
"Yep, and all willing and able. I can vouch for them, too, no druggies, nut jobs, or hard cases. Just good guys."
"Are they clean?"
"All of them."
Looking at him sideways, Jack said, "You don't mind if I don't take your word for it. Let me see their records."
"Always the cautious one, aren't you Jack," Munch commented with exasperation.
"When it comes to my girl, you better believe it. And tell them to come over here while you're at it. I want a closer look."
Munch yelled to one of the cameramen, "Hey Phil, bring my briefcase, and tell the guys to come over here."
There were about ten guys in the group, all shapes and sizes, and various races. As they stood around waiting for orders, Jack took a hard look at each of them, seeing if he recognized any from his days as a cop.
