James Thompson - Helsinki Blood

He scratches his head, adjusts his crotch. “We’re looking for a girl that’s probably locked up. Maybe she’s locked up with other girls, and maybe they have a minder with them to keep them in line. Maybe even a few men. We need stuff to B amp;E them and then take on a few guys if we have to.”

I see it the same way. I grab the Remington 870 tactical shotgun and load it with ceramic ballistic breaching rounds, to blow the locks off doors. Then we both take a couple flash-bang stun grenades each, to make a grand entrance if need be. I pocket a.357 snub-nosed that we lifted from a drug dealer a while back, in case we need a throw-down gun to manufacture a frame job. And last, I grab Milo’s pride and joy, a 10-gauge Colt shotgun made around 1878. As an antique, it doesn’t even require registration. Sweetness is a crack shot with both hands. I can’t shoot for shit. Milo has ammo for the sawed-off on his reloading table. Every shell is labeled: rock salt, bird shot, triple-aught buck and flechettes-shot tipped with razors to cut people in half. Kate shot Adrien Moreau with flechettes.

When Milo first bought all this, a mini-armory, I thought it ridiculous. His wisdom stands proven. I load the sawed-off with rock salt and pocket some extra rounds. It will tear the hide off people without killing them.

I hunt around his kitchenette, find an unopened package of big plastic garbage bags-thinking he might actually use them when he bought them was a glaring case of self-denial-and put the shotguns in them so we can carry them around without scaring the citizenry. Good enough. We lock up behind us and go in search of Loviise Tamm.

Back in the Wrangler, Sweetness asks, “Where to first?”

Helsinki is crawling with prostitutes, awash in them. Girls working their way through the university, seasoned pros, sex slaves, and everything in between. Some even advertise, and many are entrepreneurs working out of their apartments. Why not? Pimping is a serious matter, but as long as prostitution isn’t organized, there’s no law against it. There are several Thai massage parlors on Vaasankatu, near my apartment. I get a kick out of watching middle-aged men glancing around, looking furtive, trying to ensure they enter the parlors unnoticed while inadvertently doing everything possible to attract attention, before they enter and seek a massage with a happy ending.

It makes the most sense to start our search for Loviise with the most popular whore bars. There aren’t many, only a couple upscale ones at present, and I’m guessing their owners know far more about prostitution in Helsinki-who does what, who offers what services, who pimps, who the organized-crime figures are behind the slave trade-than the police who monitor such things.

Problems present themselves. There are no good reasons for the staff or prostitutes in the clubs to share such information with us, but many reasons why they shouldn’t. And when we announce we’re looking for a particular girl, after we leave, the phone lines will crackle red hot as everyone in the trade is informed, then whoever has Loviise will make her and themselves scarce until we give up and go away. I guess I just have to figure it out as we go along.

“Let’s go downtown and start with Whitechapel,” I say.

It’s fashionable among a certain set, expensive and-most relevant to our task-high exposure, so there’s not a chance of finding Loviise there. But it’s the city’s most popular whore bar, and as such, I hope the best source for information. The name Whitechapel comes from the district in London where Jack the Ripper murdered prostitutes. Quaint.

We’re silent for a while on the ride over. I know Sweetness, something is on his mind. He works up to it and spits it out. “Jenna knows I still drink?”

“You both drink like pigs in the evening, so she doesn’t have much room to criticize, but you’re asking me if she knows you drink all day long. The answer is yes.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Not a word. We all know, but we don’t talk about it. You’re an alcoholic and you can’t hide it. Why is it you alkies always think your breath doesn’t stink like booze if you drink vodka? I promise you, it does. You were a hard drinker and she fell in love with you anyway. In fact, I think she’s glad you drink. It gives her an excuse to booze along with you at night and call it ‘partying.’ But you promised to stop drinking during the day and to quit carrying that flask. You lied to her. My guess is that disappoints and disturbs her.”

He doesn’t comment, just drives in silence. The truth wounded him.

My phone is on quiet but vibrates. It’s Milo. My heart thuds. Anxiety about Kate renews itself. “Where are you?” I ask.

It’s a video call. His face looks haggard and grim. He whispers. “I’m on the front porch of the address you gave me, crouched down beneath the window beside the front door. You can look in for yourself.” He holds the phone up and angles it so I can see through a gap in sheer tattered curtains. I see a distorted image of Kate and her brother. They’re sitting together on a couch that’s falling apart. I see a bottle of booze and two half-empty glasses on the coffee table in front of them.

Milo moves the phone and tells me to wait a minute. “I walked away from the house,” he says, “so we can talk.”

“So talk.”

“I got off the plane, rented a car and came straight here. John is a junkie. He’s speedballing. In the morning, he buys an eight ball each of cocaine and heroin, sells off most of it and keeps the rest to feed his own habit. Kate isn’t using drugs, but is drinking hard. I heard her harangue him about the dope, and of course he swore to stop soon, but we both know that’s never going to happen.”

“Is he snorting or on the spike?”

“Snorting, but I think he’s using more since Kate got here. She’s been to the ATM and given him money a couple times. Since now he has her resources at his disposal, he has no reason to show restraint.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“She cries a lot.”

I feel longing and sadness. “Have you figured out how to get her home?”

“I’ll give her two choices. She can stay and I can kill John, or she can come with me and I get John into rehab. I get John to help me encourage her by letting him know the rehab is a farce. I get him a large quantity of dope on the condition that he cut off contact with her. He’s in bad shape. He’d cut her throat for the free dope.”

“It’s a solid plan,” I say.

“I thought so. And don’t call me. I know this is hard on you, but trust me to deal with it, and I’ll get in touch when there’s something worth telling you.”

“OK,” I say, and he rings off before I can thank him.

Sweetness looks over at me with concern. “What’s the situation?”

“Tenuous at best,” I answer, and say no more. I feel like hurting someone.

• • •

WHITECHAPEL. A misnomer for this establishment. When the infamous murders were being carried out in 1888, the district was a dangerous and impoverished area of London. This club, though, features a red carpet and two doormen dressed in the best Victorian style: dark tailcoats and trousers, waistcoats, white bow ties, winged-collar shirts and top hats.

One of them queries us before letting us in. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but would you mind opening your jackets for me?”

“Yes,” I say, “we would.”

“It’s unseasonably warm for your jackets, and the bulges under them suggest you’re both packing. We don’t allow firearms in the club.”

I show him my police card. “We’re exceptions to the rule.”

With a gesture of his arm, he ushers us in.

The decor is garish authentic. Reproductions of period paintings hang against floral wallpaper. The overabundant furniture is a mishmash of Gothic, Tudor, Elizabethan and Rococo. It clashes miserably with a stage that has a dance pole for stripping in the center of it. The bartenders also wear period dress, waistcoats and bow ties. A girl fit for any centerfold undulates on the stage, goes through a series of the classic stripper moves, raises one leg up the pole in a standing split, smacks her own ass and licks her shin.