Night bait, page 12
Vickie's brow crumpled quizzically. "Why does he wrap them up in plastic sheets?"
"It's just another safety precaution. When people die, their muscles relax after a few minutes. And when that happens ..." he paused again, trying to think of a polite way to say it... "their excretory orifices open up. So the guy wraps them up before they can—you know— defecate all over the place."
"He thinks of everything, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, but sooner or later, he'll make a mistake."
Vickie folded her hands in her lap like an attentive schoolgirl's. "So what I'll be doing is posing as a hooker, hoping that The Electrocutionist will try and pick me up."
"That's right. And here's the setup. You'll be standing on the west side of the block, in the middle of 14th Street. Right across from you, there's a small parking lot, one of those commuter lots; they're always empty at night. Chet will be sitting in an unmarked directly across from where you'll be standing, and he'll have a bird's-eye-view of any John who comes near you. Now we have a good idea what The Electrocutionist looks like: he's short, dark complexion, dark wavy hair, probably well-dressed. If a guy even close to that description propositions you, give him the usual line. If Chet thinks he could be the one, he'll fire his cigarette lighter and hold it up in the windshield. So if you see a light in the car when you're talking to the John, go with him. If he's the one, he'll take you to his car and probably say that he'll drive the both of you to one of the whorehouses near Dupont."
"So I get into the car with this guy, and he plugs me with sodium pentothal?" Vickie asked, shocked.
Dignazio chuckled. "No, no, we won't let it go that far of course. Chet will be right behind you the whole time, and he'll bust the guy long before he gets you in his car. The only reason we want you to go with him in the first place is to get him off the main drag and away from all the people. We don't want to cause a big whup-dee-doo. Otherwise we could just bust him right there on the spot."
Vickie smiled arrogantly. "Wait a minute. If I remember correctly, don't you have to have probable cause? You can't arrest a guy for suspicion of murder just because he matches a vague description."
"He won't know that he's being arrested for suspicion of murder. Even if he turns out not to be The Electrocutionist, we got a solid bust on him for soliciting a prostitute. So, it's not a false arrest if that's what you mean. And when we arrest him, we have legal right to impound his car, which also gives us legal right to search it. Between searching him and searching the car, we're bound to find evidence that will tell us whether or not he is The Electrocutionist. Legal arrest, legal search. And if it turns out that we nabbed the wrong guy, then the prostitution bust still holds water, no questions asked. So you can see you have nothing to worry about."
"Looks like you guys have your shit together," she confessed. "What do I do if I get propositioned by a guy who definitely doesn't match the description of The Electrocutionist?"
"Just shrug him off. Tell him you're waiting for a ride or something."
"I guess it's all pretty clearcut."
"Yep. Nothing to it. However, it's very important that no one know you're working for us. Not your boss, not your boyfriend not your ..." he almost said roommate ... "not anyone. Like they said in the war: 'loose lips sink ships.' You know how the media has a way of latching on to things, especially in this town. In passing, you could mention to your next-door neighbor that you're working for the police, and before you could blink your eye, there'd be a feature-length article on the front page of The Star about the big decoy operation underway on 14th Street. If any word gets around that we're doing this, then we might as well forget it, 'cause if other people find out about it, The Electrocutionist can find out too, and if he does, he'll go somewhere else, and we'll have lost him. Three of the five girls so far he's picked up on 14th Street. Those are good odds that he'll keep coming back in the future. And when he does, since you're the physical type he's after, chances are good that'll he'll try to pick you up. So you can understand why I want this whole thing kept secret."
"Gotcha," Vickie said. "When do I start?"
"Tonight. Since you've gotten everything worked out with your boss, you can start getting ready right now. Here's some money to pick up the things you'll need. Get four or five sets of the right kind of clothes, typical hooker garb. It shouldn't cost you that much. There's four hundred bucks; use the rest to tide you over till payday. If you run out of dough for yourself, let me know, and I'll get you some more."
Dignazio handed her the deck of tens and twenties. It felt heavy in her hands. She hadn't seen that much money at once in a long time.
"You go with Chet now," Dignazio said. "Pick up your stuff, then he'll take you down to 14th and show you exactly where you'll be stationed. I want you two on the street by dark. Any questions?"
She couldn't think of anything else. It seemed that Dignazio had worked the entire operation out with meticulous detail. "No."
"Then I'll see you later." Dignazio stood up and looked at her with a kind of gratitude she didn't think him capable of. "Good luck. And, again, thank you. I really appreciate what you're doing for us."
Vickie nodded and pulled on her coat. Chet held the door open for her and followed her out. They left the building in silence.
Once in the parking lot, they both got into a beige Plymouth station wagon. It looked as if it hadn't been washed since the day it came off the assembly line. A thin film of dirt covered the entire outside of the car; someone had finger-written WASH ME on the back window. The upholstery of the front bench seat was patched together with stray pieces of adhesive tape as makeshift repair for unnumbered holes. A small Motorola police radio crackled between the dash, the black, coily microphone wire hanging on the side like a boneless arm. Vickie saw that the inside of her palm had been smudged with a smear of dirt when she had opened the car door. "This car's filthy. You should take it to the car wash."
"Why?" Chet said back to her without humor. "I don't ride on the outside."
Vickie got the immediate impression that Chet didn't like her. His young, daring face emanated an air of cold disregard, just like Elliot's face. Chet turned the ignition, and a gruff, metallic sound shrilled out from under the hood before the engine turned over and gunned to life.
"Bad starter," Chet muttered without looking at her. "Where's a good place to get hooker clothes? I don't know anything about that."
He seemed persistent in his rudeness. She suspected that he didn't like the idea of working with an ex-hooker.
"It doesn't matter. Any jig store will do."
Chet turned the cumbersome car out of the parking lot, then squealed wheels down the street.
Vickie spent over two hundred dollars on clothes that afternoon. She felt strange buying apparel that she had sworn never to wear again, but this time, she joked to herself and conceded that it was all in the line of duty.
Two hundred dollars didn't get much. She decided to skip the hot pants routine; it was too cold for that. Instead, she stayed conventional and bought a pair of black, liquid-looking slacks, the kind that had to be peeled off; and a traditional pair of Designer blue jeans, with white stitching along the crotch and the seams, and tiny silver stars studded in the corners of the pockets. For the top, she kept it simple: a midnight blue tube top that seemed to hug her chest; and a silky-pink blouse wide open at the neck, made of a glittery material which always sparkled under the hazy, yellow light of 14th Street. (She had owned something like that before, and she remembered the loose, deliberate fit, the way the fabric would constantly rub against her breasts when she walked, causing her nipples to stand erect. That always turned on the Johns; plus, it made her small breasts as prominent as they could be, since she didn't have much to begin with.) For shoes, she picked up a typical pair of strapped high heels, so common among hookers. Next, she bought two dresses, one dark blue, and the other black like the slacks. Lastly, she purchased an array of various cosmetics: silver nail polish with glitter in it; ghoulish, light green eye shadow; black liner; wet, pasty lipstick that looked like crimson oil paint; and powder.
Chet tagged stolidly behind Vickie as she made her shopping run. When she picked up everything she needed, they made a few passes along 14th Street, and Chet showed her exactly where he would be in relation to her. She was to stand right in front of an adult bookstore called Hogart's. Right across the street from that point, there was a cramped pay parking lot squeezed between two red brick buildings. Chet would station himself there; it gave him a straightaway view of her at all times, while the gloomy shadows of the parallel buildings would make his car unnoticeable. The set up was well-coordinated, and again, Vickie's misgivings about the possible danger subsided after she saw the perfect planning that went into it.
By the time they had finished shopping and going over procedure, it was almost dark. Chet drove straight to Vickie's apartment on Route 1 so she could change. She hurried into her bedroom, arms loaded with shopping bags, leaving Chet to wait for her in the kitchen. The shopping bags made a crunching sound when she dropped them on the bed. After she hung up the new clothes, she stripped off her own. Then she yanked the sales tag off the blue jeans and pulled them onto her legs an inch at a time. They were so tight that she had to suck in her stomach in order to fasten them. She popped off her bra and slipped the tube top over her head. The lights on her vanity mirror flashed warmly on her face while she went through the time-consuming process of applying her makeup. It had been a long time since she had used makeup; she thought she would have lost her touch at applying it. But she didn't. Like an inborn skill honed to perfection, she put the makeup and liner on with flawless precision. Within minutes, her face had changed from that of an ordinary American working girl to the countenance of a veteran streetwalker. She painted her fingernails with the same jeweler's grace, but neglected to do her toes; she decided to wear the pair of boots she had saved rather than the heels. But with a harrowing suddenness, her spirits plummeted; when she was halfway to the closet, she remembered that she didn't have those boots anymore. She had lent them to Jennifer the night before. The night she had been murdered.
She couldn't get the horrifying image of what had happened to her friend out of her mind. The thought of what The Electrocutionist had done after he had killed her mocked Vickie like an unseen gremlin, as if the same fate awaited her. She forced herself not to think about it.
The tight fit of the pants almost cut off her circulation below the knees as she bent over, placing a bare foot on her chair, quickly painting her toenails.
While the nail polish dried, she stood in front of the full-length mirror on her closet, and she took a good hard look at herself. Without warning, the memories of what she once was hit her like a runaway Greyhound bus. Standing before her was someone she did not know—a painted up ghost from her past, obscenely resurrected. The mirror-image stared back at her through alien eyes, like a lifesize monument to lasciviousness, the princess of harlots. Wet, red lips opened and closed as Vicki gulped and tried to moisten her dry throat. Her thoughts went into a tailspin, and in one second of devastating flashback, all the events of her indelicate past raced in front of her mind's eye: the dirt, the stench, the rotting teeth of grinning Johns, smudged fingers offering tainted money, the naked bodies of total strangers and the things she did to them. The more she thought about it, the easier it was to see the people she had known. They seemed to be standing right behind her in the reflection. She could see them; she could see Nora yanking a piece of yellow tubing until the veins in her arm pulsed and throbbed. Dutch was sneering at her with black teeth and one side of his skull caved in from the blow of a lead pipe. The plump, greasy owner of The 801 Club nodded as his eyes focused at her genitals. A girl she now only vaguely knew was standing with her back to her, pulling on a pair of shiny brown boots. And finally, there was pock-faced Cadillac, his feather hat tilted on his head, holding a hand up jiggling a tiny packet of white powder at her, and a huge, toothy grin creasing his face. They were all there. And she knew they always would be.
Vickie shrieked out loud when a hand touched her shoulder. Terrified, she spun around and fell back against the mirror to face Chet. "Jesus, you scared me! Don't ever sneak up on me like that!"
Chet retreated a few steps, shocked and off guard. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to see if you were ready."
Her heart was just beginning to slow down. "I had to wait a few minutes for my nails to dry. Let me put my heels on."
"I'm sorry that I scared you," Chet said again in a feebly suppressed attempt at apologizing.
"That's all right; I'm usually not that jumpy. You just caught me at a bad time." She stood up and faced him again.
"Is that all you're going to wear? It's getting cold out."
"I'm sure not going to attract any killers wearing an overcoat. Hookers aren't affected by weather. Like mailmen, you know? Through rain, snow, sleet, and all that shit."
"But you're not a hooker anymore."
"But people are supposed to think I am. And if I stand around on 14th in a winter parka, I'll be the laughing stock of the city."
Chet shrugged. "Okay. Let's go."
It was full dark now. During the time she had been changing her clothes, Washington had transformed itself into a city of electric light. An infinite line of yellow streetlights followed them as they drove toward the block of 14th Street. The streets took on a rubbery appearance from tar repairwork, and the lights made everything look shiny and artificial, dying. The Washington Monument stood like a white stone obelisk which shone with a light of its own. Headlights from oncoming cars gained slowly, then rushed by them at incredible speed, as if they were spaceships in a Star Wars movie. The illumination from an underground subway entrance carved a rectangular chunk out of the surrounding darkness, while the handrails of tenantless escalators ran in their tracks. The lights were everywhere, as if the city were made of light. And the lights grew more intense as they neared 14th Street. Multicolored boxes outside of the bottomless bars flashed to the beat of jukebox music. Adult bookstore windows flickered orange, red, and blue neon signs which buzzed and burned into the wasteland of obsolescence. Bright white marquees of X-rated theaters hung in the sky and offered countless jaded movie titles to all. When they made the arc at Dupont Circle the streets began to show signs of life. Pimps congregated on the corners like a football team in a huddle. One homeless bum sat crouched in a doorway, his crabbed fingers struggling to light a half-smoked cigarette butt. Licenseless merchants stood behind wheeled tables full of Jesus paintings and paste jewelry. An occasional white-gowned Krishna disciple drifted along the sidewalk, hands raised in the air, the shaven head gleaming like a sixty-watt bulb. Prostitutes of every variety stood on streets. Others paced up and down in the notorious strut, their breasts jiggling around under sheer blouses. Lewd, fleshy navels peered over tight waistlines. Heels clacked on the cement without end. And the faces leered with unsatisfied hunger. Pink tongues flicked out of open mouths, and hair of all colors blew in the evening breeze. Eyes, seeming never to blink, fixed their gaze of insistence in every direction. Searching.
And now Vickie was going to join them.
Chet drove past 14th Street to 12th Street, then turned the corner and stopped. "I'm going to drop you off here so no one sees you with me. You know what to do?"
"Stand across from the parking lot and show my stuff," Vickie recited. "And whenever someone tries to pick me up, I look over and see if there's a light in the windshield."
"Right. And if you don't see a light, get rid of the guy. If you see me wave my hand out the car window, that means to walk back here and meet me. And if anyone gives you a hard time, I'll be across the street in a second."
"Okay." She lifted the door handle and got out.
"I'll be parked and ready," Chet added, "by the time you get down to Hogart's."
Vickie nodded, and the car pulled away, leaving her to stand alone with her eyes pitched up toward the shabby 14th Street glow. Nothing about the operation really scared her until now. Before, it was just speculation, but now it had become reality. She was about to walk onto 14th Street as a prostitute. A steady stream of maybes flowed into her mind: Maybe they will know, maybe they will hassle me, maybe they will laugh, maybe I'll see someone I know, maybe The Electrocutionist will pick me up and Chet won't be there, maybe I will ...
"Maybe shit," she said under her breath. "Maybe I better get to work."
She started walking. By the time she had traversed one block, she had adjusted her step to compensate for her awkward shoes, able to walk freely without fear of stumbling. Impulse told her to wrap her arms around herself—Chet was right; it was cold—but she made no attempt to warm her sleeveless arms. She would do nothing that was questionable, nothing to make her appear as anything but a genuine hooker. Real hookers don't feel the cold.
The tightness of her jeans seemed to squeeze the blood out of her legs. They always hurt at first, and she ignored the discomfort, telling herself it would go away in a few minutes.
The crossing light read DON'T WALK as she passed the green Vermont Avenue street sign and crossed the street. To her left, a block down, she could see several undefined figures moving like living shadows along the unlighted sidewalk. It. was strange how one side of the block could be so dark while the 14th Street side seemed drowned in light.
To her right, she strode past the remains of a burned-out theater. She remembered that the fire had occurred over a year ago, but still no one had cleaned up the charred mess. That had been the talk of the town. It was a homosexual theater; the marquee over the theater door was cracked in several places, but the feature films still remained advertised in bold black-plastic letters: HELD OVER! HARLEY'S ANGELS DUNE BUDDIES BAKER'S DOZEN. Thirteen people had died when the place went up, and a big scandal had followed when the police identified three of the bodies as high-ranking military officers, and one as a Congressional aide. Bigwheel fags, she thought, going to the movies with the boys, and wind up getting found in the smoldering heap by the jammed exit door. A grimace formed on her face as she continued. Somehow, the idea of two men kissing made her want to puke.
