Page 114 of Triggered By Love
“He came by with her Saturday night. They got high, and then they left. He must be with her, because he ain’t come back.”
“By the way, did Saul ever mention his brother?”
“All the time, man. He says he wants to get the guys who killed his bro. He bought a piece. He’s always showing it to me.” The man held out his hand, making swishing movements between his thumb and fingers.
Jason gave him another payment. “Thanks, that’s very helpful. You call me when he gets back.”
“I will. You can call me Ziko. Oh, and if you’re looking for that firefighter, he’s one of thepatos.”
“Do you know the firefighter’s name?” The man looked familiar.
“Trent,” Ziko said. “He goes upstairs to the rest of thepatos.They call themselves Brooklyn Babes.”
“You mean the models?”
“Yeah, you into that too?” Ziko gave Jason a side-eyed smirk.
Jason nodded and turned away from Ziko who shut his door. According to that guy, all the models were gay, which was what Avery had hinted at. But if that was what the professor was expecting, why had she brought Brando to the private show?
Unless… But of course, Brando had insisted.
The firefighter was in love with Avery. There was no way he would let Avery get into a dangerous situation without him. He must have assured her he would be okay—that he would turn down the professor’s overtures and that would be that.
Could the professor have had him killed for rebuffing him?
If so, Larry could have easily arranged it. If Larry was working with Saul, then he could have been introduced to Ernesto by Saul to do the hit job.
In fact, Saul could be the next hitman.
Jason opened the metal door and stepped into the stairwell. He called Avery. She was either busy or on the phone, so he dropped her a voicemail.
“Be careful with Saul. Don’t speak to him or let him into your apartment. I’ll explain later.”
The model apartments were located on the second floor with several dorm-sized rooms, a communal bathroom, and a mattress laid on the floor of the common area near the stairs. The bedroom doors were open, and Jason could see rows of bunk beds crammed inside. The smell of burnt hair and grease was oppressive, and fast-food containers littered the area underneath the stairs. In one of the rooms, a skeletal black man lounged on the lower bunk nearest the door. He had an electric fan pointed at him full blast.
“May I speak to you for a sec?” Jason asked.
The man opened his eyes. “You’re not a cop, are you?”
He had a lilting foreign accent.
“No, I’m looking for my brother. He used to live here.” He showed the man a picture of Joselito.
“Don’t know him,” the skinny man said. “I just got here.”
“Which agency do you work for?”
“Starbright. We all work for them.” The man gave a lazy wave at the empty bunk beds, most of them unmade and littered with clothes and makeup.
“You walking in Manhattan Fashion Week this year?” Jason asked.
“I wish. No, that’s where the rest of them went. To the Madison Square Garden.”
“Have you gotten any work yet? Do any parties?” He lifted his eyebrows as a signal.
The new arrival’s smile gleamed bright. “I do parties. I do them cheap. Fifty bucks a night. Don’t tell the agency.”
“I’ll need references,” Jason said. “You have any I can check?”
