Last Daughter of the Gods - 3

The detective was more accommodating than my new neighbors. After bringing me to the station as a material witness, he had ordered me to lose the shades as well but relented once I pushed my prescription across the table. I was diagnosed as a child with Photophobia – acute sensitivity to light. It’s not unusual for someone who is born an albino. If I spend even a few minutes out during the day without protection the resulting migraine lasts for hours.

Bent over his clipboard, he asked -“Name?”

“Soma.”

“Last name?”

“Just Soma.”

He looked up in irritation. “Can I see your driver’s license?”

“I don’t drive.”

“Some other form of identification?”

“I don’t have any other ID.”

“Social Security card? Birth Certificate?” he asked in exasperation.

“The arresting officer didn’t ask me to bring my birth certificate or Social Security card.”

“Okay … fine. You can start by telling me who’s in charge of the Underworld.”

“I am.”

“No last name, no identification and yet somehow you’re in charge of the most successful gentlemen’s club in the metro area.”

“You have a copy of the trust that own’s the club at your elbow.”

“Yeah, but there are four trustees listed. Are you the boss trustee?”

I allowed myself a smile. Under different circumstances I might have laughed out loud.

“There are two working trustees. I am in charge for six months out of the year. When my mother returns from Greece in September, she will take over for the following six. It’s all in the trust.”

“What are the duties of the other two trustees?”

“We meet with them whenever an issue requiring a trustee vote arises.”

“I will need to talk to them as well as your mother.”

“You can try calling them. Their contact information is in Appendix F.”

“Are they local?”

“They’re in Greece.”

“Of course they are,” he muttered. “Do you go to Greece as well when your mother returns?”

“No. I don’t travel.”

“Then what do you do when she’s here?”

“Whatever she tells me to do.”

He looked at me in disbelief before shrugging his shoulders. “We need your help on a missing persons case. Do you know who Michael Konstantinos is?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was last seen entering your club on Tuesday. He didn’t leave.”

“Your men didn’t find him when they searched the club?”

“Nope. Didn’t find his bodyguards either.”

“Well … you must be mistaken then. Clearly – if they came to the club – they must have left it again.”

He leaned back with narrowed eyes. “You know … there has been a pattern of disappearances associated with your club for a number of years. Lots of rumors too. Ghosts that walk the floors of the club and scare clients – some so badly they never return. A secret elevator forty floors deep that opens to the mouth of Hell. Tales that El Diablo Himself runs the club and uses a fire breathing hound instead of bouncers. I imagine in all the years that you worked there that you have heard more than a few of them.”

“Your confusing marketing with myth. Our clients eat that shit up. If they didn’t, we wouldn’t peddle it. Surely you don’t believe in El Diablo.”

“Let’s just say that I’m on the fence. But I certainly don’t believe that you or your mother are in charge of the Underworld.”

He was right of course. Neither of us is in charge. Dear old Daddy is. That is the genius of the trust. If Father understands anything it’s the power of invisibility. Everyone in city government believes that someone other than the trustees manages the Underworld, but since from a legal standpoint he is dissociated from the business they can only deal with the designated managers of an entity as recorded in the trust’s documents.

Everyone fears the invisible boss of the Underworld and with good reason. More than a few attorney generals in our fair city garnered votes with the solemn pledge to stamp out the adult district’s filth and corruption. But once installed in office the ones with sense quickly find better things to do with their time. The one’s without sense never last very long. If they knew how things really stood, they’d never run for the office at all.

“So … Michael Konstantinos. Two of your staff members told me that they escorted him to your office. Are you sure you’ve never heard of him?”

“I had three separate interviews on Tuesday. But surely the staff told you that we do not take or use client or visitor names in the club – ever. If you have a picture of Mr. Konstantinos handy, I can let you know if he visited my office.” I smiled to show I was trying to be helpful.

He grunted and then pulled a photo from a nearby folder and pushed it to me.

Since the staff had violated protocol, I had to play along. Unfortunately, I had no idea if they had told the detective that Michael and his bodyguards never left my office.

“Yes. He came to the office with four other men.” I smiled again.

“And?”

“He asked to see El Diablo and I told him he had the wrong address.”

Lifting his eyebrows, he asked – “How did he react to that?”

“He laughed and then asked pretty much the same questions about who really runs the Underworld as you did except with threats and more colorful language.”

“And?”

“I sent him and his goons packing.”

“Just like that. Do you keep a howitzer under your desk?”

“I don’t need artillery to get rid of unwanted guests,” I said as I removed my sunglasses. Although the detective was close enough to see the pale color of my eyes, he was as speechless as the women in the cell would be later.

He was afraid as well. Crossing himself, he whispered –“Are you El Diablo?”

I laughed. “Not even close. But clients who encounter me in the halls sometimes mistake me for a ghost.”

“Is that make up and tinted contact lenses that you are wearing?”

“The only make up I wear is charcoal mixed with cold cream around the eyes,” I answered as I slipped the shades back on. “Everything else is me.”

“The horns too?”

I smiled but did not answer.

After a couple minutes of awkward silence, the detective finally found his voice again. “I believe you could have turned them out at that. But unfortunately, the evidence suggests otherwise. There are four rotating cameras in the club but one of them malfunctioned on Tuesday while pointed at your office door and filmed it for eight straight hours. Our review of the recording shows a member of the staff leading Mr. Konstantinos et al to your door and followed by two additional men an hour later. Those two men enter the office and leave with a member of your staff a couple minutes later. But Michael Konstantinos and the other men never leave the office at all.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Nothing malfunctions in the Underworld. If the camera was pointed at the office door for eight hours it was because that is where Father wanted it pointed. Idiot! How could I ever believe that the staff would break protocol? The staff does whatever Father tells them to do.

The interview ended when I held out my hands in mock surrender – “Golly, gee whiz, you got me Mr. Detective.”