CHAPTER 6
Bethany
“Well come on Manny,” I said, “there are customers coming in, and now we're way behind schedule because of all of this. There's nothing we can do about it right at this moment, so let's at least show the customers that we do have that we're here and ready to serve them.”
“That's right Miss Verde, that's right. We gots ta' keep them customers happy. It ain't too late ta turn all a' this around, despite everything that damn Sal has done. Keep yo' head up, an' yo spirits up, an' we can turn things around. I know we can.”
I still didn't think I could tell him about the Ben Sciotti thing. He was so worried about the Coup Militant guys that I didn't want to pile anything else onto his plate, not right now. We headed inside the diner and then I closed the back door, and made sure it was locked securely from the inside. I didn't want any more surprise visits today.
As the first customers started filing through the door, I noticed the ripped up “contract” Ben Sciotti had showed me lying on the floor, along with his business card, which I had also torn up. I certainly didn't want any of the customers picking it up and piecing it together and reading it, so I hurried past them, smiling and being polite, and quickly picked up all the paper fragments and stuffed them into my back pocket. I would dispose of them later.
After that I hurried back behind the counter and took the first couple of orders, which were, thankfully simple enough for me and Manny to whip up in a hurry. At least something was going right today. If anyone had asked for a three-course breakfast, though, I think I would have broken down in tears.
After I had finished helping Manny out with the orders in the back, I got everything together on a tray and went around to the tables to serve the customers myself. I was also thankful that not too many people had come in, because now as a result of what the CM guys had done – smashing up a couple of glass tables – we were short on tables too. And I didn't know what I would do if there was a rush around lunch time, which there sometimes was, because I certainly didn't have the money to buy new tables right now.
I served the last of the orders, and then went back to take a seat behind the counter, as it didn't look like anyone else was coming in. Finally, I had a little time to reflect on the situation. Now, here I was, being forced to come up with a thousand dollars in less than twenty-four hours on the one hand, and then on the other having just been told that Sal was so indebted to the mob that he had sold me to them.
Ben Sciotti had seemed, weirdly enough, like a fair and reasonable man, outside of the fact that he now thought that he “owned” me, whatever exactly that entailed. That alone seemed like enough to write him off, but I did have a good innate sense of character judgment, and my sixth sense was telling me, in quite a strong manner, that despite the sort of person Ben seemed to be on the outside, that inside, somehow, he actually had a decent heart.
It sounded crazy, it really did, especially in light of the insane “contract” he had made with Sal, but I almost felt as if he might be able to help me – without owning me. Maybe there was some sort of a way that he and I could work something out. I mean, at the bottom of this was a question about money, money Sal owed. And obviously, it had to be a huge amount, but perhaps I could arrange to pay it off over time. Maybe there was something – besides myself and my body – that I could offer Ben.
I don't know. It didn't sound like a good idea to get involved with the mafia. But at this point, I was at my wit's end and I felt as if I was totally out of options. The CM guys – now my sixth sense about them had been unequivocal in its reading of them as evil people. They had made their demands clear, and they had made their threats very clear as well. There would be no reasoning with those guys, and if they didn't get their thousand dollars tomorrow, I didn't know what they would do to me.
Ben would be able to help me out with that. I knew he would. But . . . But if I asked him to help me, what would he want in return? I already knew exactly what he wanted – he had laid that out pretty clearly in that “contract” - but myself and my body, these were not things I was prepared to simply hand over to him. No, there had to be another way.
What I needed was to find out more about Ben Sciotti, without actually talking to him, and my answer to this little conundrum walked into the door just as I was thinking about all of this.
“Hey there Bethany,” said Scott with a smile.
Scott Peek was a private investigator, and had been one of my mother's friends and just a general family friend ever since I could remember. I think he and my mother had gone to high school together or something, and I was sure that he had had a thing for her at one stage. Man, if only she had chosen him instead of Sal . . . but now was not the time to think of things that could have been.
“Hi Scott, how are you doing?” I asked.
He brushed a wisp of gray hair away from his craggy face and sauntered over to the counter.
“Oh, things are alright,” he said. “Real busy with work. Got hired by this rich business executive, who's my age, to trail his young trophy wife around town. She's running up debts all over town, and he thinks that she's cheating on him. She's your age, or maybe even a couple years younger, actually. Oh, and she's got a shady past, that one, wow. Turns out she starred in a couple of porn flicks, was in rehab a few times, serious coke addiction, meth . . . You name it, she's done it. She's keeping me real busy with all the dirt I'm gathering on her, wow! That dumb rich old fool is really getting taken for a ride.”
“And is she cheating on him?”
He threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“Oh, only with about eight different guys – and those are just the ones I've confirmed! There are another five suspected suitors. Poor old guy is gonna have a heart attack when I show him everything – but he asked for the truth, and as ugly as it is, I'm gonna give it to him, no holds barred.”
I nodded.
“She sounds like a real piece of work.”
“Oh, she is, believe me. There are women in county lockup who seem like angels when you put 'em next to this one.”
I chuckled.
“So, what will you be having today, Scott?”
He peered at the donuts, and only then noticed that the glass in front of the display cabinet had been smashed out.
“Whoa, what happened to the display cabinet?”
I didn't want to tell him the truth – being a P.I., he would certainly start asking all sorts of questions and would quickly find out the truth about what had happened here, which I didn't want to disclose to anyone, not right now at least.
“Oh, I was mopping the floor, and Manny slipped in a puddle of water and fell right onto it.”
“Oh boy! Did he get hurt? I know someone who ran into a glass door and shattered it, they ended up severing a tendon in their arm and having to get stitches in three different places!”
“That sounds bad, wow. But no, uh, Manny is fine.”
“Good, good. Well I hope your insurance covers accidents like that. You guys gotta get some new glass in here.”
“Yeah we do. So, what will you be having?”
“Um, I'll take one of those frosted donuts, and my usual coffee.”
“Alright, one frosted donut and a cup of coffee black with two sugars coming up.”
“Thanks Bethany.”
I called out the order to Manny in the back, and then decided to try steer the topic onto Ben Sciotti.
“Say Scott, you're a P.I., have you ever heard of Ben Sciotti?”
He nodded.
“Sure, of course. Anyone in the field I'm in has heard of him. Real dangerous guy, well hell, that whole family is dangerous. Not the type of people you want to mess around with, oh no, trust me on that. Why do you wanna know?”
“Oh uh, I just saw an article on him when I was reading the news this morning,” I lied.
“Really? I didn't see any articles on Ben Sciotti in the morning paper,” he remarked.
“No, no, it was online, on, a, uh, on a website I sometimes look at.”
“Oh. Well yeah, Sciotti, he and his family have been big names in the Detroit criminal underground for decades. Started with his great-grandfather, who came over here direct from Sicily. Now his great-grandfather, he worked with Al Capone himself, smuggling liquor during the Prohibition. Made a lot of money, and made a name for himself. And then he established his family here, and they soon rose to prominence among the crime families in Detroit. They got their fingers in a lot of different pies.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked. “I heard that he owned a Fitness Club. Seems like a pretty unlikely type of place for a mobster.”
Scott chuckled.
“It does, doesn't it? These Italian gangsters aren't known for being fitness freaks. But from what I know, Ben Sciotti is a very skilled entrepreneur and businessman, and that goes for legit businesses as well as the more underground stuff. I guess he saw a gap in the market and went for it. And I guess a fitness club is an effective way to launder all the dirty money those guys deal in.”
“Does he own any other businesses?” I asked.
“My my, you seem mighty interested in this Ben Sciotti character, Bethany,” remarked Scott with a smile.
I blushed.
“Oh, well I uh, I read all these crime drama and thriller novels all the time. It's just fascinating to learn about the real-life people who inspire some of this stuff.”
He nodded.
“I hear ya. That's kinda why I became a private investigator in the first place. Loved watching cop shows and crime dramas as a kid! Well anyway, Sciotti, yeah, he owns a few other places, from what I know. Yeah, like I said, that family has its fingers in a lot of pies. I think they own a steel mill as well, um, and a used car dealership. Not sure which one though. Oh, and Controversy. Ben Sciotti definitely owns that place.”
“Controversy?” I asked. “What's that?”
He chuckled.
“Ah, you're a good kid Bethany. It's better that you don't know about places like that.”
“Well what sort of place is it.”
“A sleazy strip club in mid-town Detroit. Now that's exactly the type of place you'd think a mobster would own. I guess despite the things that make him different to other gangsters, he does play up to certain stereotypes.”
Just then something beeped in his pocket. He took out a small device and checked it.
“Damn it,” he said, “my quarry is on the move. Can I get that coffee and donut to go? I gotta get out of here and back on her trail.”
I nodded.
“Sure thing, Scott.”
I got out a donut box and got Manny to pour the coffee into a takeout cup, and then said farewell to Scott as he hurried out.
Well, that had been a fruitful conversation. I had discovered that Ben Sciotti owned a number of businesses. And later, I would have to go to visit one of them, because I was going to go talk to him in person. Yes, I was going to talk to him in person. It was the only way that he and I could come to some sort of understanding about what was going to happen with me, and with this place.
We usually had a lull in business after lunch, for an hour or so, and Manny would be able to handle the place on his own for that hour. So, I had until then to think about just what I was going to say to Ben . . .
THAT AFTERNOON
I left the diner right after serving the last few lunch time customers. Manny wanted to know where I was going, but obviously, I couldn't tell him exactly where; he didn't need to know about Ben Sciotti, no, not now – and hopefully, not ever, if I could work something out with the mobster. So, I made up a story about visiting an aunt who we rarely saw who happened to have a lot of money who might be willing to make a loan to help us out.
It was a weak story, I know, but Manny seemed to buy it.
I drove off cursing my old Honda's clunky gearbox, which I obviously wasn't able to fix for the moment, and went to the Fitness Club, after using sticky tape to patch the business card up to find the address.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I was quite surprised to see that it was a pretty clean and upmarket kind of place. I had been expecting something a little more, I don't know, scuzzy and grimy, maybe some dingy garage filled with tattooed guys who looked like they'd just gotten out of prison, lifting rusty weights.
Instead I found a trendy establishment, expertly-lit with colorful neon, and filled with brand new, sparkling clean equipment. A buff guy with a perfect tan and artificially-whitened teeth greeted me at the door.
“Hi there!” he said cheerfully. “I haven't seen you around here before. Are you interested in becoming a member? If you are, we currently have a special where you get one free week with no obligation to buy the membership.”
“One free week huh? No strings attached?”
He nodded, still smiling.
“That's right, no strings attached at all. Good deal huh? Can I sign you up, Miss . . .?”
“Miss Verde, Bethany Verde.”
“Well hi Bethany, I'm Jacob. Great to meet you. So, would you like to take a tour of the facility before I sign you up?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“Actually, I'm not here to sign up or give it a tryout . . . although maybe I'll come back for that sometime in the future when I have a little more free time on my hands. I'm here to see the owner of the place.”
“Oh, Mr. Sciotti. Um, he's not in right now. He's usually only here in the evenings.”
“And where is he now?”
“I'm not actually sure. I don't know what he does during the day,” replied Jacob.
I nodded. I wasn't surprised; typical mobster, he let people know only what he needed them to know, and kept everything else as secret as possible.
“Alright. Thanks anyway,” I said.
“Would you like me to give him a message when he does come in later?” asked Jacob.
“No,” I said, “don't worry about that. Thanks for the help though.”
“No problem. Have a good day, Bethany.”
“You too Scott.”
I walked back to my car. Well, if he wasn't here, I guessed that he would most likely be at the strip club, Controversy, and I did not relish the thought of having to go there. I'd never been into a strip club before, but from what I'd seen in movies at least – which I didn't imagine was too far off reality – they seemed like awful, sleazy places full of gross, scummy men and the type of dirty sluts who showed their bodies to these men for cash. Ugh. Well, this was an emergency; the CM guys would be back in the morning, and I sure as hell didn't know what I was going to do about that, because that thousand dollars they had demanded wouldn't simply appear out of thin air.
I got my phone out, brought up Google Maps and typed in “Controversy” in the search bar. The strip club came up first; I guessed it was a popular venue. With a sigh, I started my drive, mentally preparing myself for my first ever strip club experience.
It took around twenty minutes to get there, and as soon as I did, I noticed that the look and feel was very different from the fitness club I'd just been to. While Controversy was, I suppose, a little cleaner than I had imagined it would be, it was just as sleazy as I thought it would be.
A giant neon sign, which was off, due to the daylight, but which would look gaudy and bright at night, showed a woman clad only in a G-string, with the name Controversy spelled out in big, colorful letters in a seductive font, while beneath it, more big letters advertised “live nude girls, best lap dances in town,”. Wow, this was a classy place, I thought to myself, my own voice dripping with sarcasm in my head.
I parked my car in the mostly-empty lot (which I imagined would be full of cars at night) and immediately felt a little guilty as soon as I got out, as if there were hundreds of judgmental, disapproving eyes on me. I felt almost as if I should be wearing a trench coat and one of those masks with glasses, a big nose and a mustache to be going in here.
It was a weird feeling, especially because there was really nobody around to make these judgments or fix me with a burning, critical stare, but I couldn't help feeling dirty just walking toward the doors, even though my intentions had nothing to do with the “live nude girls” inside this place.
I approached the doors, and heard the muted thump of electronic dance music coming from inside. It sounded like a nightclub, and already I was beginning to feel even more reluctant to step inside. Still, I had to go in; I had to talk to Ben today. I pushed opened the first set of doors, which were big solid swinging doors, finished with gaudy gold trim, and painted black. Inside there was a smaller door, guarded by a bouncer, and to his left a window booth, inside which was a bored-looking guy who looked like a total geek; he had thick glasses, a patchy goatee and a Star Wars T-shirt; not the type of guy who I imagined working in a strip club. Maybe he was studying for a science degree at night or something, and he needed to do this during the day to pay the bills. Come to think of it, there was some sort of textbook behind him that he appeared to have been reading.
“It's ten bucks for ladies,” he said, his tone of voice flat and uninterested.
“Well uh, I'm not here to go into the club. I need to speak to the owner, Mr. Sciotti.”
The guy sighed and called over the bouncer, a huge African-American guy with a bald head that was covered in tattoos.
“This chick wants to see Ben,” mumbled the nerdy guy.
“You lookin' for a job here, sugar?” asked the bouncer.
“No, I am not looking for a job here!” I replied indignantly. “I'm not a, a stripper! I need to speak to Mr. Sciotti about a business matter.”
He nodded.
“Alright. Hold on.”
He then stepped inside the club, and emerged a few moments later with an Italian-looking guy, dressed in an expensive Armani suit, who looked like he had just won Olympic gold for bodybuilding; he was massive, almost as broad as he was tall, and the buttons on his suit seemed ready to pop as they tried to contain his obviously steroid-created bulk. It was kind of gross, actually. I liked strong guys, but this guy had taken things way too far and just looked like a freak. I almost wanted to laugh, though, because his face was orange, coated with too much spray-on tan, making him look almost cartoonish.
“You wanna see Ben, huh?” he asked.
“I do, please.”
“Open your handbag first.”
“What? Why?”
“I wanna see that there ain't no guns in there.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Does I look like the type of person who would carry a gun in her handbag?”
“The best assassins don't look like assassins at all. That's how they get close enough to their targets to pop 'em. Now, lady, if you ain't gonna open that bag, you ain't coming into the club.”
“Alright, alright,” I conceded, and allowed him to open my bag and search through it.
“You're clean,” he pronounced. “Follow me.”
The bouncer opened the door for us, and I followed the huge man into the club. The music was way louder in here, and I could feel the bass vibrating my insides. There were a few stages, and each of them had a different girl dancing nude on a pole, with a few sleazy-looking guys congregating around them and tossing bills and coins onto the stage while whooping and cheering as the strippers jiggled their breasts or opened their legs for the guys to get a clear view of . . . of everything. Ugh . . . this place felt awful. I felt awful, and really gross just for being in here.
The big guy lead me over to the bar, and called the bartender over.
“Make this chick a drink, whatever she wants, it's on the house,” said the big guy.
“Hold on, I don't wanna sit here and drink,” I said. “I need to see Ben now, it's urgent.”
“Well he's in a meeting, and you might have to wait a while,” replied the big guy, “so I suggest you take the free drink, sit here and wait for him. He's not the kind of guy who likes to be told what to do or to hurry up – just a friendly hint that you might wanna remember. I'll go tell him you're here – but don't hold your breath, sweet cheeks. Like I said, he might take a while to come down.”
“Alright, alright,” I said with a sigh, and ordered a plain soda from the bartender while the big guy walked off.
I stared at the dancers for a while, wondering how they could simply bare it all – and I mean everything – so openly, in front of gross, gawking, sleazy men who threw money at them. I mean sure, it probably paid well, but there are some things I would just never do, no matter how much I got paid.
Then I got to thinking . . . What exactly was I gonna tell him? What kind of bargain was I going to try to strike? Was it wise to even be here, getting even more mixed up with the mob?
An overpowering impulse suddenly urged me to bolt, to run away as far and as fast as I could. This was crazy. This was totally crazy! What on earth did I think I was doing here? No, this was a stupid idea, a very stupid idea. I should never have come here.
I got up, intending to hurry out and not look back, and forget about this whole crazy plan. But as I turned to go, I saw him coming down the stairs – Ben Sciotti – and he saw me. And as he did, a broad smile began to spread across his face.
It was too late. I was here, and now there was no way out of this. None at all . . .