Stolen Souls

4

ARTURAS STRAZDAS HUNG up without leaving a message. He thought for a moment as the car sped along the motorway toward the city, the driver’s attention fixed on the road ahead. Tomas always answered his phone. It didn’t matter if he was in bed or at a funeral, he never left a call unanswered if his mobile was in reach. Many times Arturas had phoned his brother only to hear hard panting and moaning on the other end as he rutted with one of the whores.

Once, Tomas hospitalized a cinemagoer for complaining about the disturbance caused by his taking a call during a screening of some romantic comedy. It had taken several days, and some expense, to convince the victim they were mistaken in their identification of the attacker.

Tomas had always been trouble, but Strazdas had promised his mother he would care for his little brother, no matter what. He had repeated the promise just a few hours ago, before he left her in the Brussels apartment he’d bought for her and caught the flight to Belfast.

She had complained bitterly about being left alone at Christmas, but it could not be helped. There was business to attend to, and as much as he loved his little brother, Tomas could not be trusted with such a responsibility.

Strazdas had texted Tomas before he boarded the plane, reminded him to be ready for his arrival, that he needed him at the hotel that night. Now Tomas did not answer. Strazdas returned the mobile to his breast pocket and considered.

There were many reasons why Tomas might not have answered his phone, of course. But none were good enough for Strazdas. Clearly something was wrong.

“Herkus,” he called.

“Yes, boss?” The driver glanced back over his shoulder.

“When did you last see Tomas?”

“A few hours ago,” Herkus said. “He and Darius were drinking in town. I had to pick them up in a hurry. They’d gone into the wrong bar, some place for queers. You know how Tomas is about queers.”

Yes, Strazdas knew how Tomas felt about homosexuals. That particular foible had cost him some money over the years. Between bail and payoffs, caring for Tomas was like keeping an exotic animal. Its prey was expensive.

“How bad?” Strazdas asked.

“Not very bad.” Herkus shrugged. “Not much blood on his hands. Darius got him out of there before he did any real damage. I lifted them a few streets away.”

“And then?”

“Tomas said he wanted to break in that new whore. The Ukrainian girl. Being around queers always makes him want a whore.”

Strazdas watched the city lights draw near, buildings solidifying in the dark.

“Which Ukrainian girl?” he asked.

“The one Rasa took from the mushroom farm last week,” Herkus said. “The agency put her there, working under Steponas. She’d been there a month or six weeks, maybe, when Rasa spotted her. She was covered head to toe in horse shit, but Rasa can pick a looker out from a hundred meters. The Loyalists paid two thousand for her.”

“Good money,” Strazdas said.

“Like I said, she’s a looker. Darius told me. Young, skinny, nice mouth. Good tits. They were putting her to work for the first time today. Tomas said he was going to get her off to a good start.”

“Where are they keeping her?”

“Bangor direction,” Herkus said. “Northeast of the city, past the other airport.”

Strazdas retrieved his phone from his pocket. He looked up Darius’s number and dialed. It went straight to the answering service, didn’t even ring.

“After you leave me at the hotel, you go looking for Tomas and Darius,” he said.

“Okay,” Herkus said.