Rosario's Revenge by D W Ulsterman

Author:D W Ulsterman [Ulsterman, D W]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-12-06T22:00:00+00:00

I’m here at a place called the Skin Patch. Won’t wait long. You promised if I made it here you would meet with me. Come soon.

The message was to a recently retired Vancouver B.C. reporter Adele had started researching last year. His name was Denver Wakefield. He had been responsible for some of the most aggressive coverage of Vancouver’s multiple crime syndicates during what was possibly the city’s deadliest stretch of murders in the 1990’s when wars broke out between rival gangs over a diminishing drug trade.

Wakefield was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for his coverage, an award he publicly remarked he cared nothing for. “I just want the son-of-a-bitches responsible for all the blood in our streets to be put behind bars,” he famously said. Adele was fascinated by his hard-charging methods and seeming fearlessness when bringing to light some of the darkest acts of his home city’s most dangerous organizations. Last night before going to sleep she had messaged him explaining who she was and asked if he would be willing to answer some questions regarding Yuri Popov. Within an hour he responded that if she could make it to Vancouver the following day and find a place owned by Yuri Popov he would meet with her there. Adele was hopeful that meeting was about to take place.

“You here alone, honey?”

Adele looked up and found a thin, blue-eyed blonde staring down at her. The woman was dressed in a dark leather corset and matching mini-skirt.

“Alone or not, it doesn’t matter – the minimum is one drink order an hour,” she explained.

“Can I just get an ice water?”

The woman shrugged. “Sure - that’ll be ten dollars.”

“What? Ten dollars for water?”

“It’s either that or you leave. Don’t blame me. I’m just the help.”

Adele slapped two U.S. five-dollar bills on the table which the woman snatched up with the speed of a striking cobra. “Be right back with your water,” she said.

Women cruised the room asking men if they wanted a private dance. Most of the men said no. A few said yes. One man whispered something to a woman who wore nothing more than bright pink knee-high socks. She smiled. He stood up and followed her to the back of the other side of the stage where they both disappeared behind a black curtain.

Adele found it all depressing. She didn’t consider herself a prude or inexperienced in the ways of city life. As a teenager, she had walked with friends late at night around Seattle’s Pioneer Square district where drugs and violence were common. Bellingham, where she went to college, had areas every bit as edgy as its big-city cousins.

This was different, though. It was a far more grotesque level of depravity. The dancers reminded Adele of balloons that had been deflated of all happiness and self-worth. The men who devoured those women with their soulless eyes were less than human.

The water arrived ten minutes later, and so did Denver Wakefield. Hard-edged cheekbones jutted out from a thin face. His dark eyes darted around the room before finally settling on Adele.

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