“Be my guest.” I order a pizza with the works, then shout over the hairdryer, “Can I ask how you found out about the chess club?”
“Craig’s List.” Bent at the waist, upside down, she fluffs her hair with one hand while working the blower with the other.
“Is that how Chrissy got involved?”
“No. She told me she crashed some UB parties.”
“Do you know of anyone else I could call to find her?”
“Give me a second. I’ll check my phone. God, it feels so good to be clean. Thank you.” A few minutes later, she exits, digs in her purse, and shows me an image. “This woman is supposed to be showing us the ropes. She brings us to parties, buys us clothes, and introduces us to men. Give me your cell and I’ll put in her number.”
After she finishes, I get a text from the delivery guy. “Pizza’s here.”
“Awesome.” She chows down and talks about aging out of foster care while I listen my mouth watering.
The fat devil on one shoulder chuckles. “Go ahead. Take a bite. One little nibble won’t matter.”
Skinny angel clunks him on the head with her harp. “Shut the fuck up, she’s eating salad.”
“You sure you don’t want some?” Tina separates strings of cheesy, gooey, awesomeness as she pulls off another piece.
“No, I’m good.” Thinking of my old sexy self, I spear wilted brown lettuce.”
When we’re done, I box up the leftovers and hand her my card. “If you think of something else, give me a call.”
“I will.” With a swish of her dark locks, she’s gone, and I lock the door.
Opening my computer, I research the number she gave me but soon, I give up and sleep.
In the morning, I dress, take the elevator, and follow the signs to the complimentary breakfast. Finishing a spoonful of instant eggs, I wash them down with black coffee.
Did I mention diets suck?
Done eating, I wait outside so as not to grab a cinnamon bun or a few slices of bacon or a blueberry muffin or…
Thank God, my Uber arrives before my willpower gives out. The middle-aged driver maneuvers his SUV through the slush and about fifteen minutes later, he stops in front of a dorm. Only eight in the morning, I’m betting the enterprising web designer will still be in bed.
All it takes to gain entrance is a flash of my fake badge at the desk. Then, I follow the sleepy co-ed’s directions to room two-eighteen and pound on the door.
“Police, open up.”
The college kid, Akash Patel, is so surprised, he stands in the hall with his hands up and mouth gaping wide. “You got the wrong guy.”
“Prostituting underage girls?” Brows raised, I poke his chest and back him into his room, an action I immediately regret.
I’ve inhaled better smelling gym sneakers. “Any idea how many years that’ll get you?”
“Hey, I don’t know anything.”
Eyes watering, it takes superhuman strength not to hold my nose. “Chess club? Seriously?”
“I manage the server. I’m not responsible for the content. It even says so on my disclaimer.” The kid opens his laptop and shoves some legalese at me, but I’m not impressed.
“Who paid you?”
“All I have is an email. I’m not lying. Look.” He shows me and I type the characters into my phone.
“You will shut this site down. If you try to open it under some other alias, I have the means to find it and if I do, you’ll be arrested and prosecuted to the full extent of the law.” I learned to mimic my dad’s authoritative tone at a very age. The way people jump to obey, it’s almost magic.
