Ethan Justice: Origins

17: Sunday 25th September, 10:50

I PASS SAVANNAH Jones and her companion as I enter Aphrodite's Angels. The man has a limp and an arrogant look about him. He is not the pimp Black described to me. I have told Black to follow the girl and to keep me informed. A large woman sits at a large desk, applying makeup as she looks into the mirror of her compact. She is fighting a losing battle. She is unaware of my arrival. A horse could approach silently on this carpet.

"Where is Christos?" I ask.

The black-haired woman jumps in her chair, dropping her compact. She stares at me in terror. The fat on her arms trembles with fear. Her mouth is open but she is silent. I have not started to interrogate her. She has been worked over already. The young man with Jones is not to be underestimated.

"Who was that leaving?" I demand.

"My ... my husband will be here any minute," the woman says, looking past me at the outside street. She is not in a good way. There is no value in distressing her further. I say nothing and wait. It is Christos I want to speak with.

Ten minutes pass before Christos runs in. He is solidly built and dressed only in black, an attempt at macho no doubt. His hair is oily and he is unshaven. I immediately dislike him. He rushes behind the desk to the fat woman, ignoring me completely. He leans over and puts his arms around her.

"I'm here," he soothes.

She looks up at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. "He said he would suffocate ..." She takes a tissue from a desk drawer and blows her nose loudly. " ... you with ... your own penis."

I smile. "Who was the man that left with Jones?" I ask.

The couple turn to face me like they had forgotten I was there.

"Who the fuck are you?" Christos snarls.

I raise my hand. "Calm down. I have a feeling that we can help each other out."

"Like I said, who the fuck are you?" repeats Christos.

"I'm somebody who can help you get the girl back."

"From the Russian mob? I don't think so." Christos strokes his wife's head while she dabs her eyes.

I pull my stiletto knife from its ankle holster. Christos and the fat lady jerk backwards. I throw the blade at a framed photograph of a big-breasted girl with platinum blonde hair on the wall above the sofa. The glass explodes, covering the sofa and carpet. The blade twangs as it reverberates between the eyes of the airbrushed escort. Impressive. I have their attention and I have my patsy.

"Tell me about this Russian," I say.

My mobile rings before Christos can speak. I am bored with Queen now. I must remember to change the ringtone. It is Black with interesting news.

*

Back at the Ritz, John and Savannah were sitting on the bed, buzzing like two highly charged particles. They had raided the miniatures from the mini bar and were having an impromptu party on the bed.

Savannah attempted a Russian accent. "Chistos, you don't want to have drink and make party?" She had to admit it was nowhere near as good as John's. "What were you thinking?"

"I don't know," John said. "I got carried away I guess. My adrenaline was pumping, and my heart was beating like I'd sprinted a mile. It was a real rush. That elbow and foot stomping really hurt by the way."

"You were out of control. I mean purposely getting his name wrong. You are a dangerous man to know."

"Heh, we did it, right? At least I didn't try to pay him off with five hundred pound notes."