Ebb Tide Ch. 01

{MedicWest}

Monday wasn't my first time at MedicWest Ambulance service. I'd done the initial interview, second interview, the background checks, on-site certifications (proving I knew what my resume said I knew) and their three day orientation process. I was a solid guy, considered bright and perpetually calm. They said I'd fit right in. My trainer/partner's name was Lorenzo Torrent; a five year veteran of MedicWest.

He was twenty-six, a graduate of the CSN, married with a two year old son. He was shorter than me (5' 6" and 160 lbs.), swarthy and uncertain what to make of me. For the next six weeks, he was to make sure I belonged to the MedicWest family. After that, I could be reassigned to another ambulance - first, second, or third shift), but I was guaranteed a paramedic slot. I hadn't trained so hard just so I could work in an office.

"So, they tell me you were in the Navy," Lorenzo asked once we rolled out on our first call.

"Yep."

"What was it like?"

"Going full speed ahead, aiming high, being all I could be while being one of the few and the proud and part of the action."

"What?" Lorenzo momentarily took his eyes off the road to gauge my mood.

"Those are the five catchphrases of the armed forces. The Coast Guard's is 'be part of the action'," I explained.

"So...you don't want to talk about it," he nodded.

"Basically, yes," I grinned. We took care of the first emergency - a kid took a header off an overpass. Rumor had it he was running away from some other kids. Why they weren't all in school was unclear.

"So, have you ever killed somebody?" Lorenzo asked out of the blue.

"Are you seriously asking a medical specialist if he's killed anyone?" I chuckled.

"Oh..."

"Ask me at the end of the day," I joked. "I'll rate your performance as well."

"Do you ever answer a question truthfully?" Lorenzo mused.

"No."

"How do you and your girlfriend communicate?"

"Non-verbal clues...Taiko if she is in another room," I answered. I was not pouring out any part of my private life to some person I'd known less than two hours.

"Taiko?"

"A Japanese drums style," I informed him. It took him a few seconds.

"That's the first honest thing you've said today - outside of your job. I see that you know your stuff," he rambled.

"The first? Don't count on it - thanks for the compliment about my work," I responded.

"I'm still not sure if I like you, or find you annoying," he noted.

"I've been referred to as 'The Green Stool Sample'," I teased. "As long as you've drunk the Kool Aid, I'm okay." It took him a moment to figure it out. Green poo was an indicator of IG, or liver issues...unless you ingested food dyes, which normally, and harmlessly, turned your crap green as well.

Lorenzo laughed for a whole minute. It was medical humor. We continued to bond over the quirks and oddities of our profession. By the end of the shift, I was pretty sure he was going to give me a glowing review. It helped that I handled every crisis with unflappable poise. To pay me back for my good deeds, saving lives and doubling down on the White Knight gig, I walked into my house with a just-bought folding bed to find G doing aerobics.

Because, you know, when you are living in close proximity to women you want to recycle out of your life as quickly as possible, you want to envision them as eminently fuckable - or not.

"Hey, V," she greeted me. Okay, for a millisecond, I believed she was playing with me. Then repercussions rolled around. Had Ms. G gotten close to somebody, Lloyd would have found out about it and punished them both - dipshit.

While I was going over the 101 best ways to forget about G's heaving, sweaty bosom and sensual curves all wrapped up in a painfully thin, white leotard, she clued into my difficulties. She sidled over to the sofa and grabbed her rather ineffective hand towel. I went into the kitchen. Half a bottle of water and some supplements later, G showed up.

"Ummm...Dabney and I were talking..." she stammered and wouldn't make eye contact. "You said you had cameras in all the rooms...yes?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you are recording us in the shower?" she blurted out.

"Yes, it does and mine is a closed system. No one can hack the control center," I stated. "No, I'm not going to disconnect the cameras, or show you were they are located. That would defeat their effectiveness in monitoring my home."

"But why?" she gazed at me with those deep, sexy grey eyes.

Ms. G was a natural blonde, though hers ran to a honey-amber color instead of Dabney's dyed, white-blonde locks. In hindsight, I could tell that she was all real too - no enhancements necessary. I also know that being 39 did not render her into a sexual tundra. The confusion her body was projecting confirmed that.

"If something happens in the house, I want a record of it. Say you let someone in and they plant some drugs in the toilet tank so the cops can bust in and put me away for 5~10 years," I enlightened her. "We both know someone who would do that to me...and you. So I keep the around the clock surveillance."

"I'm not trying to creep you both out, or make you move out. I understand your feelings and concerns. That doesn't translate over to me changing the way I live for either of you," I laid down the law. "Is Dabney still asleep?"

"No. She called her sister to see if she was okay," G said. "She sounded concerned so Dabney borrowed your other car (my 2014 black corvette!). She said she might spend a few days there." Why the fuck do I bother? I had stressed to both of them to NOT call anyone, or go anywhere until I got back. I had left them $200 as an emergency fund and the car keys - for a FUCKING emergency! Working with 'normal' people was turning out to be more complicated than I recalled.

I had faith in two things at that moment. My plan to lead Circe hounds away would have worked. Any competent network would have still watched the normal places Dabney might show up - places like her sister's. To put the second thing in context, you had to understand the nature of the vice trade in Vegas.

50% of the sex workers in the city were 'cast-offs'; runaways, druggies, failed dreamers and those of questionable hygiene. They usually had pimps, but those pimps were losers. The only 'ass' they would kick was their girl's. They were too cowardly to mess up tourists and the local population knew the score. They were the bleakest, darkest corner of the profession and the turnover rate was high.

The next 40% were your real working girls. They 'earned' for pimps who ran more than two girls, they had a modicum of healthcare and protection. Their life expectancy and longevity were better. That didn't mean they'd exit their career with that much more money. The whore striking it rich was a fallacy, best kept to movies. Odds were if they married an out-of-towner, it was a scam.

You could also lump in the strippers who made some on the side in this group. Someone in the clubs - the manager, or a connected bouncer - ran them and took their cut. They walked a fine line between being exotic dancers and true whores. The lucky performers went in another direction as soon as possible. Technically, anyone in this group could work for 'escort services', but they weren't escorts.

In the top 10% were the call-girls; what people thought escorts should be. Their pimps had muscle plus good legal back-up, cops on the take, or both. Their time started at $150/hour for the basic package and escalated rapidly from there. For your money, you got a good time. These ladies were the real pros. You were paying for something better than a simple fuck. You were paying for companionship.

You were paying for the illusion that she cared and liked what you did for her. When they lied, you wanted to believe it. Dabney was one of those. Like G, she had an overabundance of erotic sex appeal which made her a good earner. She had five or six more years in her and then she'd quit, or tumble off the roster down to the second tier.

Dabney must have panicked after I left for work. The truth of the matter took hold. The boy she knew fifteen years ago was a reckless brawler. She had no idea what I was actually like, or capable of. She wanted me to be the protector from her youth yet the past eight years of her life told her that men would let you down, or hurt you. Pimps weren't inclined to let their high-earning escorts just walk away, or go independent.

That is why they kept several credit cards in their names as well as high-interest loans. Hanging onto their social security cards, copies of ID's and a list of your closest contacts was also normal. Even if their bitch did manage to get away, the next seven years of her life would be hell as her credit rating went to crap and her creditors foisted off her debts to a collection agency.

I'd put a stop to that last night. Every bank loan taken out in her name would under investigation for the next few weeks. We could have made good use of that time... but no, she had to go to her sister's. The urgency of the matter from her pimp's perspective was based on the fact that Dabney knew what Circe looked like.

True, the word of a woman with a host of prostitution convictions versus a pillar of high society was relatively worthless. Circe had gambled once by letting Dabney live. It had been a business decision, a lesson in resource management for Reagan, plus Dabney was a 'nobody'. Sadly, last night another 'nobody' had put a hurting on Pablo and then vanished with the girl. Circe didn't need the worry wrinkles.

I looked up Sammi's name in the Henderson directory and made the call following my standard paranoid sequence. I linked my phone call to a cell tower fifty miles outside of Vegas then dialed Sammi's number. If they had Dabney, there was already a hiccup in their plan if they wanted to snare me as well.

The blithely ignorant who made up the human masses had phone numbers that could be linked to a physical location, or a billing address. That way, when one of Pablo's associates grabbed Dabney, they would ask her if she had my number. She did. It didn't matter. Due to this nutjob's persecution fantasies, my phone number led to a Pet Shop a good ways away from my domicile.

Breaking into a small, struggling business and creating a phone tap was insanely easy. I'd done it to several different locations. I sent the burn code to that communication cut out, the battery fried the chip and that became another dead end in case they did go looking in that direction. Dabney could inform them of my new job. I wasn't terribly worried about them cracking MedicWest's database.

Even if they did, my contact information was...misleading. I'd gone to UNLV, hung around the campus advertising boards until I spotted the properly desperate individual. I wasn't looking for someone looking for a service. I was looking for someone posting their poverty to the world by offering to tutor something inane.

The promise of a constant trickle of dollars convinced him to cover my upfront contacts. He didn't know me and I didn't know him. If something bad happened to him, there was no leverage to use against me. Going after G wasn't likely.

As a rule, rousting casino personnel wasn't good for business as those institutions were well-heeled and politically connected. The Stratosphere had no loyalty to G; this was standard practical policy to not let outsiders influence their employees.

Anyone thinking my car's registration led back to my home hadn't been paying attention to my 'cautious' nature. Even my GPS device didn't cut on until it was half a mile away from my location. I doubted Dabney would have recalled the precise route - panicky decisions affect recall like you wouldn't believe.

"Hey Sammi," I spoke into the phone. "This is Vance Vardanyan." Yeah, I got teased about the 'double V' growing up, thus my kick-ass predilections. To make matters more confusing, my given name was Vardan, not Vance. That was a bit complicated. "I know; long time, no see. Is Dabney there?"

"Oh God, Vance...yes, Dab was home when I got off work earlier today. About thirty minutes ago, two guys came looking for her. She was really scared but she left with them." Sammi hurriedly informed me. "How much trouble is she in?" We hadn't grown up in the 'are they in trouble' tax bracket. We expected trouble automatically.

"Plenty," I said with confidence. "What do you know of her situation?"

"She's a high-end call-girl in the city and works for some leech named Pablo. About a year ago she showed up, all scared about something. She wouldn't tell me what it was. Pablo came knocking on my door the next day. This guy wasn't Pablo though..." she left her desire for more information hanging.

"Don't call the cops, Sammi. I broke Pablo's collarbone last night when he threatened Dabney" I began.

"Oh damn it, Vance!" Sammi interrupted. "She's not a kid anymore. You shouldn't have gotten involved...especially after you picked up and left all those years ago."

"As I was saying, I busted him up then told Dabney to stay with me for a few days until I could figure a way to deal with this problem," I explained.

"What in the hell are you going to do?" Sammi was moving past being scared for her little sister's life to being annoyed at me for interfering where I didn't belong.

"I was planning on having a chat with Pablo and come to a jointly acceptable solution to Dabney's dilemma," I said.

"What on Earth makes you think you could do that? Have you had your head up your ass for the past twenty years?" she groused.

It was fifteen. It didn't seem relevant to correct her on at the moment.

"Dabney said you are a paramedic," she grumbled. "Did you lie to her?" About being a paramedic? Who lies about that? I guess if some schmuck was trying to polish up his sensitive side, a guy might do that...but that's not me.

Had I told her I was a twelve year armed services veteran, a former-Navy Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsmen (SARC) One (Petty Officer First Class) assigned to Marine Force Recon then to a SEAL team before ending up in the DEVGRU (some of the baddest sons-of-bitches who have ever lived; trust me) Dabney would have justifiably thought I was some lying, over-compensating, pseudo-macho, wing-nut failure of a National Guardsman - at best.

To complete the fairy tale, I had spent three years in the CIA's Special Operations Group (SOG). She would have assumed I was lying. I barely believed it and I had lived through it. Expecting people who hadn't seen me once in the past fifteen years to believe me was purely delusional thinking.

"I am a paramedic."

"You?" she scoffed. Why was it so hard for everyone to believe I'd become a care-giver?

"Yes, me. The pay may suck, but the work is spiritually fulfilling," I told her. Pause.

"Please don't let anything happen to Dabney, Vance. She really liked you," Sammi turned all motherly on me - someone else's mother. "Keep me in the loop."

"I will," I replied. Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn't. I'd see how things worked out first. "We'll talk again later." I hung up. It was time for a meal followed by a nap.

"What are you going to do?" G asked me as I assembled my collapsing bed. I was too tall to sleep comfortably on the sofa.

"Getting a nap," I said.

"But what about..." she murmured.

"They have my number, G. I don't have theirs," I yawned. "They will call. That won't do them any good, so they will be waiting for us at the Stratosphere. If they call you back, tell them they can find me at the first place we met." That was Detective 101: go to the last place the guy was seen. I called my pal in the Netherlands. She gave me the skinny on Dabney's credit card trail. It wasn't good news.

It was a rotating account system that collected money from 'cells' (aka money-making schemes) that went to a series of feeder accounts. Every few hours, those accounts rolled over to another account, off-shore banks to a place that didn't like giving out information on their private clients. Instead of popping a $1million to one account, setting off all kinds of alarm bells off at too many governmental agencies, they dribbled money constantly, thus flying beneath the radar.

Her hacking in one of those shady banks to do some real damage was beyond the scope of our relationship, but she clued me into the systems' weaknesses for me to hopefully use later. I picked up a random e-mail service, created a throw-away identity in twenty minutes that would serve its limited purpose. That done, I rested my head on my pillow.

I was asleep inside of two minutes. As predicted, no one called, so they were definitely going for the intercept. There still was the first fuck-up to deal with. As I was getting ready to leave with G, two police officers came knocking at my door. I opened the interior security door while leaving the outer, steel lattice door shut and locked.

"Mr. Vardanyan?" asked the lead officer, a woman with the tag of C. Rothschild.

"Yes, Officer Rothschild?" I answered. She tried and failed to open the outer door.

"Would you open the screen door please?" she asked. Her partner, a white guy named B. Shell, looked around cautiously.

"Would you show me a warrant for my arrest, or a search warrant, please?" I parroted her.

"We are here to request your assistance with an ongoing investigation," she responded.

"Thank you for the offer. I choose to decline," I calmly informed her. "We can move right past your gentle insistence, my intransience and confront your inability to legally detain me, my clear desire to be of no assistance and my need to be somewhere else right now."

"What is your problem? Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu wants to talk with you," she informed me.

Hawaiians were a sizeable minority in Las Vegas, thus a senior police official named Mahaulu somewhere outside of the 50th state made sense.

"I reassert my willingness to be uncooperative, Officer Rothschild," I sighed. "Now, I'm leaving. I have to take a friend to work."

"You know I have an arsenal, Concealed Carry permits and work as a paramedic at MedicWest (paramedics were licensed). No surprises. We tack on that this entire encounter has been recorded, your lack of legal standing and I wish you good day," I said before shutting the door. G was thunderstruck by my blasé attitude. I winked at her before leading her out the back door.

Those two didn't hassle me further. Instead they tailed me all the way over to G's place of employment. I had to leave my pistol and knife in the car as I walked her to work. Caught sneaking a weapon into a casino was a great way to get banned for life. I had to park in a lot while they got to park in the street. It was clear to me they thought I deserved a second chance to meet with Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu.

Just outside the entry way, there was this guy looking for G to show up. Even in Vegas, she was notably more attractive than most. I didn't think there was a current picture of me to go by yet. That would change soon enough. I saw him making a call then pointing the camera phone in our direction.

"Take care, G," I patted her lightly on the back. "I'll be back to pick you up when your shift ends." She nodded, started walking away, then doubled back and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"Stay safe and good luck," she worried. Off she went.

{Getting Dabney back}

The guy at the door was talking to somebody on the phone. I sped along the process by walking over to him. This lookout didn't know what to make of that. Interrogating him was pointless. He was a 'cut-out'; his job was something any monkey could do.

"Someone wants to talk with you," he held out the phone as if it was a cross and I was a vampire. The cellular device changed hands.