Life Struggles (Life Stories Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

thanks, man. Please like always, don't tell anybody about our talk.” I found it necessary to remind some of my informants of this. Several were drunks or addicts, and a few were just plain stupid.
    Shorty waved absently as he lit a cigarette before lifting the mug one last time.
    I went to an internet café where they let you use their computers for a charge. I searched for descriptions of the video game. Yeah, that sounded like it. The descriptions were all from people with names like “Lord of Darkness.” I found one from KINGDORK. Bingo.
    A couple of the reviews talked about taking the game into RL (real life I assumed) and getting points for pictures. That was all I needed to know.
    I called up a free internet phone service that allowed one two-minute call at a time for free. After that you had to pay. I didn't expect this to take more than two minutes. I typed in Flint's number.
    “This is Myra Hartag, how can I help you?” Shit. Why was she answering Flint's phone?
    “Counselor, this is Ethan McQuade. I need to talk to Flint immediately.” I was watching the seconds go by.
    ‘Mr. McQuade, you can tell me and I'll give him a message when he's available.” Maybe she's just trying to be helpful here, but I didn't have time to find out.
    “Ms.Hartag, there's only a minute and a half before the connection turns into a pumpkin. I need Flint immediately. Please.”
    I heard her yell his name along with a string of expletives. I was trying to humor her as best I could, but her attitude just wasn't conducive to a good relationship.
    “Flint, what do you have?”
    “Get ready to copy, detective. Website is the one the investigator found.” I rattled off the addresses of the photo site and the rankings site, then gave him the backdoor password.
    “Do not let anybody detect entry through the back door or my informant dies.” I paused. Confirmation is the lifeblood of journalism. “You know any big ugly Oriental motherfuckers named Rufus other than Rufus Yardley?”
    “Ethan, stay away from Yardley. When Alex comes home freshly laid and totally shit-faced I don't want to have to tell him his step-father's dead.”
    I paused while he shouted an order. “Next call let me know if Alex is on the photo site.” Seventeen seconds left.
    “Bye.” Time had run out.
    It's getting darker. This is Decadence, the country's largest gay gathering of the year. Bourbon Street was always a circus, but now it was a circus with an overflow of testosterone and an underflow of clothing. In maybe an hour I'd have to brave the river of ribaldry to get to the Pussy Willow. I had a bit of time to kill, so I drove to another internet café.
    First, though, I called Bookie. He was the paper's archivist and had everything on file, and most of that in his head. He couldn't tell you shit about tomorrow, but he had the entire history of the world up to this morning at his fingertips. Or so it seemed.
    “Bookie, it's me. Is there anywhere in the world with a market for human sex trafficking involving late-teen boys?” Thank god Bookie had the good sense never to ask questions he didn't want answered.
    “Yup, Belarus. Also known as Byelorussia or White Russia.” Didn't have to consult a single reference. Actually, that kind of bothered me.
    “Thanks, bye.”
    Fortunately Bookie was accustomed to dealing with out-of-left-field questions and didn't bother inquiring about their purpose. If the story wound up in print he'd have all of his answers anyway.
    Some people are faster, but I'm more than fast enough. The basics became clear in minutes. I ruled out air. Sea shipments to Belarus mostly went through Klaeipeda in Lithuania. Nothing direct from New Orleans. Nothing in the last 24 hours from anywhere in the western hemisphere; in another two weeks there was one from Houston. Nothing from Mexico in the next six months.
    Most freight from the Americas to Klaeipeda actually went through Rotterdam for transfer between ships. Nothing from the