Table of contents is here .


LAST TIME ON EMII:

"Now," he said, "before I throw you both out, is there anything else I should know about?"

CJ took both Lois and Henderson by surprise when he spoke. "Yes," he said. "I'm assuming that you'll have a team working on this stakeout?"

"Of course," said Henderson.

"Then do us all a favour, and make sure that these two guys aren't anywhere near it," and he proceeded to describe the two officers he'd overheard earlier.

This time, when Henderson laughed, there was no mistaking it. "Oh, I know about those two!" he said.

"And they're still working here?" asked Lois incredulously, beating CJ to the question by the shortest of margins.

"At least I [i]know those two are bent," said Henderson. "If I got rid of them, Luthor'd just get someone else to do his dirty work. I like knowing who I have to look out for."

The sad thing, CJ thought, was that what Henderson was saying made complete sense.

NOW READ ON...[/i]


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


CJ had now spent so much time at the Daily Planet that he was beginning to feel at home there, especially since Jack had finally run out of lawyer jokes and Jimmy had stopped staring at him as though he was some bizarre form of alien life.

Of course, CJ probably *was* some bizarre form of alien life, but Jimmy didn't actually know that... Perhaps the fact that CJ was a lawyer was enough on its own to make Jimmy stare. After all, an awful lot of Jack's jokes suggested that lawyers weren't quite human.

What was it about journalists and lawyers, anyway? Were reporters taught to hate lawyers as part of Journalism 101? Perhaps not, CJ decided, because Lois had mentioned in passing that Jack, at least, hadn't been to university. Maybe it was just instinct.

The staring aside, CJ had had little to do with Jimmy, something for which he was grateful. It wasn't so much that CJ didn't like him – he seemed a decent enough guy – as that Jimmy was fixated on CJ's alter ego, and that made CJ uneasy.

That Jimmy hadn't found anything new since CJ had rescued Tessa Michigan seemed to make matters worse, rather than better. Perry was assigning other stories to Jimmy now, but everyone in the newsroom knew that the reporter was obsessing over the one that had got away. He would tell anyone who was prepared to listen just how much he wanted that story. And he would get it. Somehow.

While CJ felt that Jimmy was dangerous, most other people – Jack included, who said so at great length – thought that Jimmy was turning into a bit of a bore. That was helpful in a way, because it gave CJ the perfect cover for avoiding him.

Overall, though, CJ liked the Planet and its staff. Maybe CJ's wasn't a normal vacation, but it was a change from his routine and, largely thanks to Lois, he was having a surprising amount of fun. Really, what more could any vacationer ask?

Right now, CJ and Lois were back in the conference room, where they had been working steadily for the last hour or so. CJ looked up from the pile of computer print-out in front of him and said, "Lois, I've been thinking."

Lois cocked her head and sniffed the air. "Ah, hah! That's what it is. I thought I could smell burning."

"Hah, hah. Very funny, Lois," said CJ without heat. "Seriously, though, I've been thinking about prostitution."

"What, don't they pay you enough at the DA's office?"

"Lois!"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Go on, CJ."

"It's something Tessa said to us, the other day. She told us that the police at the bus terminal made it clear that they could get her a job as a hooker, right?"

Lois cast her mind back to the conversation. "Right," she said. "So what?"

"Doesn’t that suggest organised prostitution to you?"

"Maybe. But that still doesn't get us to Luthor. I mean, somehow I doubt that he's running a brothel."

"Not himself, no. But we might be able to get him on a charge of conspiracy."

Suddenly Lois was all ears, leaning forward across the table in her enthusiasm to hear more. "What? How?"

"There's precedent," said CJ. "I just can't believe he'd be stupid enough to not hide the connections, but looking at these papers—"

"CJ! Just spit it out, will you?"

He nodded. "Have you ever heard of Charles 'Lucky' Luciano?"

"No. Should I have done?"

"Probably not. He was a mobster, back in 1930s New York."

"And the history lesson is relevant how?"

"If you can keep quiet for a minute while I explain, you'll see."

"Well, I'll try, but it'll be difficult," said Lois, then perhaps thinking that CJ's tolerance for jokes might be wearing thin, she sobered and said. "Go on. I'm listening."

"'Lucky' Luciano had a couple of hundred prostitutes working for him. They worked out of apartments, which he owned. He had people who directed the hookers to areas where trade was good. He moved the women around, so that clients could get fresh faces at regular intervals. He had enforcers who made sure that they turned over an agreed percentage of their takings to him, or at least his agents, at the end of each month. He had people who were paying off the police and the courts – well, we already know that Luthor is doing that for some of his other business activities. He even had doctors who looked after the girls' health."

"Health plans for hookers? Pretty forward thinking, for a guy operating sixty odd years ago."

CJ nodded, acknowledging Lois's comment, and continued. "Luciano also had an interest in a linen firm, and it supplied all the sheets and towels for his prostitution business."

"You're kidding me, right?"

CJ shook his head. "Nope. Luciano ran a highly organised operation. Anyway, this crusading DA—"

"Sounds familiar."

"—managed to piece all the component parts of the operation together, and made a successful prosecution on the grounds of conspiracy. Luciano wasn't involved in any of the businesses day to day, but he was convicted because detectives used the theory of conspiracy to prove his guilt."

"And you think Luthor is doing something similar?"

"Maybe. There's a laundry service in the East River district that seems to be doing an awful lot of business with three massage parlours in Suicide Slum."

"But East River is nowhere near the Slum. That makes no sense at all."

"It's a LexCorp subsidiary, Lois."

"You do know that massage parlour isn't always a euphemism for brothel, don't you, CJ?" The excitement in her eyes was at odds with the caution in her words.

"Sure I do," he said. "But it's worth looking into, wouldn’t you say?"

Lois didn't answer immediately. She looked pensive for a moment, then nodded. "When I was checking out which stories the other papers hadn't picked up on... You know, when I came across the Taylor story the other day?"

"Yes?" CJ said, prompting her to continue.

"One of the others was about organised prostitution in the Slum. So, yes. I'd say it's *definitely* worth looking into.

"By the way," Lois asked abruptly, "what are you planning on doing while I'm on the stakeout this afternoon?"

CJ shrugged. "Check out these massage parlours, I guess." Then seeing the look on Lois's face, he hurriedly added, "Not like that!" But then he saw the way her eyes were dancing, and he knew that he'd just been had.

Jack chose that moment to reappear, putting a premature end to the teasing. With a flourish, he presented Lois with a single piece of paper and announced, "I found him." He sounded particularly smug for some reason.

"Who've you found?" asked Lois.

"Johnson." On hearing that, CJ had to admit that Jack had good cause to be pleased with himself.

"How?" "Where?" Their excited questions overlapped each other, and Jack did his best to answer them both.

"Where is Bolivia. You told me he was there, yourselves. To be more precise, he's in prison in La Paz. How? I just did a little ol' web search and, hey presto, there he was."

"Wait a minute," said CJ. "I spent ages looking for Johnson on the Internet, and I didn't find anything. So how come your search turned up something useful when mine didn't?"

Jack's pride gave way to something a little more sheepish. "If I tell you, you've got to promise not to laugh at me."

"Right now," answered CJ, "I'm too impressed to laugh." And he honestly was.

"Well, then..." Jack licked his lips and said, "I spelled his name wrong."

"What?!" chorused Lois and CJ.

"I've never been much good at spelling, so I... Well, I missed out the 'h' in Johnson. And I found him through a Bolivian newspaper article. Obviously their reporter couldn't spell either."

"Unbelievable," muttered CJ, marvelling at the way luck could sometimes work.

"What's he in prison for?" asked Lois.

"Drugs," answered Jack. "I'm not too sure about the details, though. My Spanish isn't that good. Does the word 'narcotraficante' mean anything to you?"

CJ thought for a moment, made a decision, then said, "Jack. I'm going to be out for most of the afternoon, and so is Lois. While we're gone, could you check something else out for us?" Lois raised her eyebrows at CJ, and he could tell that she was as curious to know what precisely he wanted Jack to do as was Jack, himself.

CJ pointed down towards one of the pieces of paper in front of him, said, "We've interested in some businesses in Suicide Slum," and rapidly filled Jack in on their prostitution theory.

When CJ finished, Jack grinned, grabbed hold of the addresses, and said, "I'm on it." He rushed towards the door, but turned when he reached the threshold. "Oh, and before I forget, Lois, some guy – Saxon? – called. Said to tell you that he liked what you did with his information, and that he wants to talk to you again." Then he was gone.

CJ looked at Lois and, stating the obvious, he said, "I changed my mind about working on the brothel thing. Jack can do the legwork here in Metropolis."

"While you...?" she asked, though he suspected she'd already guessed the answer.

"While I go to Bolivia."

"But... You heard Jack. Johnson's in prison! They're not just going to let you waltz in there, even if you do get lucky and it's visiting hours!"

"Ah," said CJ. "But that's where you're wrong."

"Wrong?" Lois said sceptically, as if the idea that she could be wrong about anything was a foreign concept.

CJ explained. "There was an item about La Paz in the Planet's travel section a few weeks ago. Fascinating place, by the sounds of things. Anyway, one of the city's more unusual tourist sites is the National Penitentiary where, for a nominal fee, one of the inmates will give you a guided tour."

"You're kidding."

CJ shook his head. "No, actually I'm not. So, all I need to do is pick up a few bolivianos and, uh..." He made the flying motion with his right hand that he'd learned from the other world's Lois and Clark. "In fact, unless you've got anything else in mind for me, I might as well get going now."

"Anything else in mind..." Lois seemed to give that careful thought, then said, "You can wait another five minutes, can't you? I think..."

She didn't need to say what she was thinking. He could read it in the gleam in her eyes and the way she sashayed towards him, raising her arms, ready to wrap them around him.

As her lips met his, he decided that he could, indeed, wait for five minutes before leaving. Maybe he could even wait for ten or fifteen.

*****

It was a perfect day for flying.

The sky was an almost turquoise shade of blue above him and the water below glittered with the reflected fragments of the afternoon sun. To CJ's left, the open expanse of the Atlantic Ocean stretched into the distance. To his right lay the eastern seaboard of the United States.

He passed over scattered freckles of land, sparking a memory of a childhood geography lesson: the Bahamas, he thought, and then the larger blob of Haiti. He spotted the long cigar of Cuba off to the west.

Then he was back over land again. From so high up he couldn't be sure where the borders between Colombia, Venezuela and Brazil lay, but he could make out the mighty Amazon flowing through its basin.

As he flew nearer to his goal, CJ flew lower and began to pay closer attention to the landscapes below. He could see the high Andean peaks to his right, which meant that he was too far east.

CJ turned and flew due west, a trajectory that took him over the low alluvial plains, swamps and gently rolling forests that made up some sixty per cent of Bolivia's total surface area. Then the relief changed abruptly, metamorphosing into a densely forested region of high ridges, deep valleys and precipitous gorges – the Yungas – and then he was over the Andes.

He paused to orientate himself. Below him lay the monotonous flat-floored expanse of the Altiplano, which lay between the two parallel ranges of the Cordillera Oriental and the Cordillera Occidental. It stretched for hundreds of miles, barren and bleak, and almost inaccessible through more conventional means.

CJ wished he had brought a camera with him, knowing that he was seeing something unique. On second thoughts, though... It would be hard to explain how he had come to take the pictures.

From there it was easy to find La Paz. All he had to do was fly along the length of the Altiplano, then continue north until he hit the city.

*****

Lois had long since decided that there were three types of people: people that made things happen, people things happened to, and people who seemed to coast through life untouched by and disinterested in everything.

Henderson, Lois thought, most definitely belonged to that first group. Quiet and morose, he might be, but somehow he managed to get people to bend to his will, quickly and efficiently. How else could he have managed to get permission to plant microphones throughout the chic café where Benton's rendezvous was to take place? How else could he have persuaded the tenants of a second floor apartment in the building opposite to go out of town for a few days, leaving the police free to use it as the base of their operations?

She hated to admit it, but she was impressed.

The speed with which he'd managed to achieve everything was reflected in the lunch dishes the apartment's usual inhabitants had left unwashed in the sink, the half-drunk cups of coffee left on the table in the living room and the litter of half-read newspapers on the sofa.

The police had added their own layer of mess to the one the tenants had left behind. Electrical wires criss-crossed the stripped pine floor, and various pieces of high-tech recording equipment occupied nearly every flat surface. A dark-haired officer was setting up a camera at one of the two windows; the Nikon had an impressively long zoom lens and was balanced on a rugged looking tripod.

Beneath all the clutter, though, it was a smart apartment. Clean, too, Lois noticed. From the lack of dust on the shelves and skirting boards, Lois deduced that whoever lived there had a cleaning fetish and would probably be fretting until they returned about the mess they'd left behind along with the impression it would give. It wouldn't occur to whoever they were that the police might not care.

Lois wandered over to the window – the one without the camera – and peaked out through the slats of the closed blinds, trying to keep out of the way of the officer who was carrying out the final checks to the recording equipment.

"Everything working?" It was Henderson's voice, Lois realised.

"Yes, sir," said the sound recordist.

"Plotnek?" asked Henderson.

"Uh, huh," replied the cameraman with a grin. "All set up and ready to go."

"Good job, you two," he said. "Now all we've got to do is wait."

Lois glanced down at her watch. It was three o'clock; the rendezvous had been scheduled for four. Henderson looked at her and said, "Okay, Lane. Now, remember, don't get in the way and *don't touch anything*."

Lois looked at him reproachfully.

"And don't give me that butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, who-me? look, either. I *know* you, Lane, remember. And I know that you'll get into everything, given half a chance, so I'm warning you now: don't. You're here on sufferance. Don't you forget that."

The dark-haired officer with the camera turned around. There was a measure of amused sympathy in his eyes as he said, "Don't worry about him. He's a grump."

"Plotnek..." warned Henderson. "Mind your job, not our guest."

"Sorry, sir," said Plotnek, and directing a last flash of a smile in Lois direction, he turned back to the viewfinder and fiddled with the focus.

*****

CJ managed to touch down unnoticed in a small alley that led onto a quiet tree-lined square. He stepped out into the bright sun, noting that there was a bite to the air that had less to do with the oncoming winter than with the altitude. The cold, however, was doing nothing to deter children from playing their games, or the women – their mothers? – from selling sweets from small kiosks.

Along the opposite side of the square stood a large building. It lacked the faded splendour of the grander structures left behind centuries ago by the Spanish conquistadores, but it was imposing nonetheless. The yellow-ochre coloured walls hid behind them the notorious National Penitentiary, CJ's current destination.

CJ made his way towards the jail and, as he approached the gate, a prisoner waved at him, beckoning him closer. "I am Felipe. You come with me, and I give you tour. Yes? Bargain price, yes?"

There wasn't much CJ could say to that, other than to agree.

Felipe's tanned face split into a wide smile, revealing straight yellow teeth.

A lethargic guard allowed CJ to enter the prison and went through the most cursory motions of searching him. His disinterest was quickly explained, however, when Felipe, who proved to be very talkative, revealed that he only kept half of the tour fee for himself. The remainder went to paying off the guards and paying for his other expenses. It took CJ a while to realise that this meant giving the head of the prison's own mafia his cut of the takings.

CJ felt as though he had stepped into an alternate reality – one, he ruefully mused, that was stranger by far the *real* alternate world he had visited. La Paz's prison bore no relation to any prison CJ had ever visited, and, given his profession, he had visited more than most people.

For one thing, the only guards in evidence were stationed around the entrance and perimeter. Inside, the prison appeared to be governed by the inmates, or, more precisely, by those inmates with the most power and money.

CJ kept his eyes open, letting his eyes linger on everyone they passed. All the prisoners were dressed in casual clothes, but none looked anything like the photograph of the other world's Jules Johnson.

A look around showed CJ that, if you were rich, you could live surprisingly well inside the prison. "Here are the best rooms," explained Felipe, embracing the three floors and balconies that surrounded the interior courtyard where they now stood. "Here prisoners with much money buy the best rooms." He rubbed the tips of his thumb and fingers together to reinforce his words. "Even pay for family to live here, too."

CJ raised his eyebrows. It sounded unbelievable, but, indeed, there were a number of children running around. There were various facilities here, too: a pool hall, a restaurant... more of the kiosks that he'd seen in the square outside. If he hadn't known where he was, he would have thought that he was in the courtyard of a rather decent hotel.

Felipe led him further into the prison. The next courtyard they entered was less luxurious, but still quite pleasant.

The next area they passed through had nothing in common with the previous ones. This one, which Felipe described as being the "slums", was squalid, and the inmates looked appropriately dejected. "Here many people die," said Felipe. "They fight much. This is not a good place."

Maybe it wasn't a good place, but it was where CJ finally spotted his quarry.

Although CJ had been keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of Luthor's ex-employee, he almost missed him. The man, slumped against an outside wall, was almost unrecognisable. The Jules Johnson in CJ's pictures was a clean shaven and smartly dressed individual with a weakness for sharp suits and highly polished shoes.

This man's hair had been unevenly clipped, shaved close to his skull, and there was a couple of day's worth of beard on his face. He wore a simple once-white cotton shirt and frayed blue jeans. More telling, however, was the haunted look in his eyes, one of which was swollen half-shut, evidence of a recent beating, and the thinness of his frame. Prison clearly did not agree with Jules Johnson.

Johnson's eyes flickered incuriously over CJ, who he clearly saw as being yet another gringo tourist, come to gawk and him and his ilk. However, when he saw surprised recognition in CJ's face, his whole demeanour changed.

CJ watched Johnson struggle to his feet. Then, hope warring with anger, Johnson said, "It's about time! I've been waiting for months for the big man to spring me!"

Felipe, who had drawn to a halt next to CJ, waiting impatiently for him to move along, threw out his hands and rolled his eyes. Then he jabbed an accusing finger at Johnson and spat, "Always with the big man. This big man, he no exist!" He turned towards CJ and said, more politely, "Excuse him, senor. He is..." He tapped his temple with his forefinger.

"Please, Felipe," ventured CJ, "could you give us a few minutes alone?"

"You and he?" asked Felipe, somewhat taken aback by the request. "You know him?"

CJ shook his head. "We've never met. But I think we might have some... acquaintances... in common."

Felipe didn't look entirely convinced – at least, not until CJ presented him with a few more bank notes. Then Felipe said, "Ten minutes. I come back for you in ten minutes." He faded from view.

"What took you so long?" hissed Johnson as soon as they had some privacy.

CJ didn't answer the question. Instead, he answered the question with one of his own. "How come you're in here?"

"I was caught," answered Johnson, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

CJ almost smiled. "I rather gathered that. I was wondering more about the circumstances of your capture."

"I made the connections, just like the boss wanted. Made the arrangements for Pablo Quintero to come to Metropolis for the meeting. Everything was good until... See, Pablo gave me some samples, and I thought we'd paid off the border guards. Seems, though, that Pablo decided not to deal. He wanted to set up his own cell in Metropolis – as if the boss would ever let him get away with that! – so he paid double for the guards to catch me."

That explanation seemed to have drained Johnson of all his energy, and he slid his back down the wall, until he was back in his original seated position. CJ squatted down opposite him.

CJ couldn't help but notice the way Johnson's right leg juddered, an involuntary movement Johnson tried to control by pressing down on his knee with both hands. It occurred to CJ to wonder whether it was a nervous tick or the more malign symptoms of withdrawal. Was Johnson a user as well as a pusher? It seemed likely; drugs, along with everything else, were undoubtedly readily available in the penitentiary.

He sighed, slipped off his glasses, and gently kneaded the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Headache?" asked Johnson.

CJ nodded vaguely.

"Huh," said Johnson, by way of an acknowledgement. Then he returned to a subject that was of more direct interest to himself. "What are you going to do to get me out of here?"

"Do?" asked CJ. "Why should I do anything?"

"'Cause the boss owes me!"

"So?"

"So you gotta do something! You don't know what it's like in here, day in day out!"

That much was true, thought CJ, but he couldn't find it in himself to care very much, either. He hated everything Jules Johnson represented. CJ had spent far too much time having to comfort the victims of drug induced crime, coaxing them to go on the witness stand as he prosecuted dealers and traffickers, for him to want to help Johnson more than he had to, to get what he wanted. If Johnson really had run out on Luthor, because he couldn't stomach the way Luthor did business, CJ would have sympathised with his plight but, from everything that Johnson had just said, it seemed as though the street had got it wrong.

The newspaper article Jack had found had been right. Johnson was a drugs runner, plain and simple.

CJ frowned, working through the implications of that.

"Word on the street," said CJ, "is that you ran out on Luthor. That you took off with his money."

"That isn't true! There wasn't any money! Just an agreement between two parties to—"

"So you claim that you were still working for Luthor when you were caught?"

"Of course I was! You know that! I mean, he sent you to help me!"

CJ shook his head in silent denial. "Luthor cut you loose a long time ago. Face it, he left you here to rot."

"But you said..."

Again CJ shook his head. "You just assumed."

Johnson ducked his head, wrapped his hands around the nape of his neck and muttered something obscene. "I'm a dead man," he muttered.

"How do you figure that?" asked CJ.

"You just said it. I've been dumped. And I haven't got any money to buy my way out. Heck, I don't even have enough money for a half-way decent cell!"

CJ remained silent for a while, letting the seriousness of the situation sink in. He concentrated on listening to Johnson's pounding and panicked heart beat, calculating carefully the moment when he could most effectively commute the trafficker's sentence.

"Of course," he said slowly, "there might be another way."

"Another...?" The speed with which Johnson reached out for the proffered straw was pathetic to behold.

CJ nodded. "It would mean making another deal."

"A deal," said Johnson dubiously. "What kind of a deal?"

"How about one with the DEA?"

This time, Johnson's expletive was almost shouted. "No! No way, man! I said I was dead before, but this... I'm not going to commit suicide!"

CJ shrugged his shoulders and stood up. "Your loss," he said, and turned as though to walk away.

One step.

Two steps.

Three.

Then... "Wait!"

CJ turned on his heel, a calculatedly slow movement. He looked down at Johnson, at his battered face, his beseeching eyes.

"What... what would I have to do?"

TBC