Night bait, page 14
It looked like Wednesday would be another drag night. Several hours went by, but still no luck. Her only propositions had come from the ordinary, genuine Johns who were out looking for a piece of tail. They had all looked different, but none of them had resembled The Electrocutionist.
Out of the periodic stream of hookers walking by her, Vickie noticed one of them who seemed to be heading in her direction. An Oriental girl, wearing a frosty black dress, heels, and dark nylons, stopped in front of Vickie and looked at her with her hand on her hip. The makeup on the girl's eyes was so dark that it looked as though she had used charcoal for shadow.
"Who are you?" the girl asked, the light accent of her voice denoting bitterness.
"None of your business," Vickie replied.
"Who's your pimp?"
"I work on my own. I ain't got a pimp."
The girl grated a quick sigh of exasperation. "Hey, baby, no one works these streets without a pimp. Why should you clean up while the rest of us gotta grovel?"
"Because I'm better than you."
"You better watch your step, baby. Girls who don't play by the rules get messed up." She took a threatening step forward.
Vickie didn't budge. "Try it, slope. I'll kick your ass right back to Viet Nam where you came from."
"Titless white cunt," the girl gruffed, and tramped away.
That was one thing Vickie had forgotten about, two things actually. One was that hookers without pimps didn't last long on the street. Most red light districts were monopolies on flesh. The pimps ruled like tyrants; in a manner of speaking, they were slave owners. Any girl who worked the streets without a pimp had three choices: she could join a stable and save herself a lot of grief; she could have her face fucked up and get run out of town, or she could wind up at the bottom of the Potomac River. Street hookers got to keep very little of their pay; instead, they would turn most of it over to their pimps in return for clothes, a place to crash, dope if they were hooked, and enough food to keep them going. Street whoredom was not a thing girls did for money. They would do it because they were desperate, because there was no other way for them to turn. The girls in it for the money were the call girls and the housewife whores, the ones who weren't affected by the fetters of desperation. Happy Hooker-type prostitution was a far cry from street hustling. They were two entirely different worlds.
Another thing that had slipped Vickie's mind was the ever-present race-hatred that existed on the street. Like the old Eastern caste systems, hookers were divided into categories, not by choice, but by inheritance. The black hookers were the lowest on the scale; they were the most abundant, and also the least expensive. White girls hovered in the middle; what they did and what they would charge depended upon how good they looked and how low they would degrade themselves for cash. The elitists were the Oriental hookers; they were scarce and in high demand. Usually, a straight lay would cost at least a century note, and the prices skyrocketed for anything more. And anything kinky would cost a fortune for an Oriental.
Due to this caste-by-color structure of order, hatred among the ranks ran rampant. The blacks hated the Orientals because they got all the money. The Orientals hated the blacks because they saw them as inferior. And the whites hated everybody because they were the go-betweens.
It seemed almost funny to Vickie: how girls all in the same miserable boat could hate one another instead of pulling together. It was such a waste. Their heedless hatred made their pitiful lives even more unbearable, like smashing their heads against the wall for no reason. Mutual futility.
Just a few minutes after her encounter with the Oriental girl, Vickie found herself confronted by another hooker standing in front of her. "Vickie?" the girl said, as if in doubt.
Vickie looked back at the girl, squinting. A typical white hooker with long brown hair, white jeans, light blue sweater, and a pretty face except for the speed lines. An instant later, Vickie realized that she knew this girl. Her name was Heather, a hooker Vickie had known back in her own day. Another ghost from the past.
"Heather," Vickie acknowledged, "I almost didn't recognize you."
Heather smiled back. "Shit, I thought you ditched this scene. Back on the streets, huh?"
" 'Fraid so. What's going on?"
"Same old shit, I guess... I suppose you know everyone's talkin* about you."
"I figured."
Heather's smile faded. "They're sayin' you're workin' alone, that you got no pimp. That ain't true, is it?"
"It's true."
Heather's face was grave. "Oh, Vickie, you better be careful. I'm only sayin' that as a friend. The last girl who tried to work on her own got cut up real bad, and not by pimps either, by hookers. It's the worst thing you can do."
"Don't worry, Heather. I can take care of myself."
"Those people'll hurt you. I hope you know what you're doin'." She paused and took a step back. "I better go now. I'll see ya."
" 'Bye."
Heather drifted away and disappeared around the corner.
What she had told her was true. But Vickie didn't worry herself about it. After all, it was just a masquerade, and hopefully her job would be over before anyone started gunning for her. Anyway, what harm could come to her with Chet across the street watching her constantly?
More Johns came and went, all without a sign from Chet. It looked like another uneventful night; it would be getting light soon. Business, which for some reason had been lousy all night, was dying down. Hookers thinned but; Johns were scarce; some of the bottomless bars were closing up. A big, shiny blue car drove slowly by; it made her realize that the traffic was getting scant too. It was the only car on the road.
She had no idea what time it was. She didn't have a watch, and the digital clock on the First Federal building four blocks down was too far away to see. Then she sputtered at her own poor sense of observation. Just two blocks away stood the spiring tower on St. Thomas Circle, its mammoth clockface looking her right in the eye. It was going on four-thirty.
Tapping her foot to the rock music from some far off strip joint, she opened her purse and poked a finger into her cigarette pack. It was empty. At times like this, she knew she would never be able to quit smoking. Her body ached for nicotine.
When she felt it safe, she looked over at Chet's car, and when she saw his tiny face move under the dark glass, she raised two fingers to her lips and quickly pointed at the door of Hogart's gesturing that she would go inside for a pack of cigarettes.
She turned and walked past a lighted sign advertising a sale on X-rated films, then entered through the front door. The tubby man at the counter looked up at her, and she asked him if there was a cigarette machine in the place. He pointed to a curtain on the back wall and said, "End of the corridor, last booth." She nodded, but stood still for a moment as she looked down at the display case in dismay. Behind the glass lay rows and rows of every possible kind of sex aid: foot-long vibrators, white with shine; battery-powered ben-was that looked like glazed eggs; double-headed dildos and swollen rubber penises of every length and width, grotesque and misshapen. The idea seemed more obscene than the objects themselves. She couldn't imagine sticking one of those ugly things in herself. She wondered who made them; what kind of place would go to the expense of manufacturing tools for orgasm? With a smile, she envisioned factory workers standing by a conveyor belt full of rubber dicks. An honorable occupation. What do you do for a living? Oh, me? I make fake cocks. She had to force herself not to laugh out loud. The rest of the room was lined wall to wall with glossy pornographic magazines and hardcore sex novels. Skin mags and fuck books, she thought. I wonder if there's anything in this city that doesn't have to do with fucking.
She walked to the back of the room and pushed through a black cloth curtain. It was the entrance to a hallway full of X-rated movie booths. Each side of the corridor was flanked with what looked like closed closet doors, each door sporting a color picture of the booth's film, along with the title. A glowing red lightbulb had been mounted over each doorway, and they provided the hallway with a dark, almost useless, illumination. The flittering sound-of eight-millimeter movie projectors whirred in her ears with trance-like intensity. Occasionally, she could hear coins plunking from behind the doors, meaning that some unseen movie-watcher had just dropped another quarter in the slot. From one of the booths, she heard an irregular rhythm of dull thuds.
At the end of the corridor, she saw the boxlike shape of the cigarette machine. She shuffled through the crimson darkness and withdrew seventy-five cents from her purse. When she had located the right selector knob, she inserted the coins into the slot, listened to them fall, and yanked the plastic knob under the Salem Lights. Nothing happened at first, so she gave the knob several more yanks, each one more violent than the previous, until the green and white box finally fell to the bottom. The instant she took the packet from the dispenser, she began to unravel the cellophane top, and she turned to leave.
Off guard, she walked right into something; then a pair of bodiless hands grabbed her roughly by the throat and bounced her back into the cigarette machine with such force that the impact of her body caused the machine to slam against the wall with a vicious whack. Dazed, Vickie looked up and saw three hookers standing in front of her. One of them was the Oriental girl she had fussed with earlier; the other two she had never seen. All of them were bigger than her, and they closed in on her one step at a time until they were so close that she could hear their breathing over the drone of the movie projectors. The dim shroud of red light fell over them, making their faces look monstrous and vampirical. They were all grinning.
"Smartass titless cunt," said the Oriental.
"Who do you think you're fuckin' with, scumbag?" another one said. "Nobody comes into our territory on her own."
Vickie tried not to show her fear as the three tightened the half-circle around her. She knew she would have to make the first move. "Why don't you cumsuckers go eat each other?" she said without a trace of fright. "I'll put my foot up all three of your asses."
Without hesitation, Vickie lashed her leg upwards in a swift, forceful thrust, and socked her foot up between the Oriental girl's legs as if punting a football. The girl lurched forward and doubled over; her eyes bugged wide, and she let out a feminine grunt. But before Vickie could make her next strike, someone had grabbed a fistful of her hair and had bopped her head back against the cigarette machine. A jarring burst of pain flared in her midsection as the other girl kicked her right above the waistline of her jeans. Then another, and another. The wind had gotten kicked out of her, and she had to gulp for air. The hand released her hair, and she crumpled to the floor, wrapping her arms around her head for protection. She flailed her legs wildly in front of her, but more kicks came: thwarted stamps to the head, clouts to the chest, repeated blows aimed at her crotch. Her body jolted and weakened with each sledgehammer kick. She was too busy trying to protect herself to hear the footsteps coming down the corridor.
Suddenly, the kicks stopped, and Vickie moved her hand away from her eye to see Chet barreling between the two girls who had assaulted her. He instantly took hold of one girl's hair and slammed her head into the doorknob of the last booth as hard as he could. Then he picked the other girl up by the waist, lifted her off her feet, and threw her down head-first on the floor, where she landed with a sharp slap as her body smacked the concrete. The Oriental girl was still slumped against the wall, wheezing and puffing, her hand cradled between her legs.
Chet stooped and helped Vickie to her feet. "Can you walk?"
Still dizzy, Vickie managed a nod.
"We've got to get out of here fast." He grabbed her around the waist and hustled down the corridor into the main room. The fat man at the counter had the phone to his ear, and he was dialing a number. "Hey, you punk!" the man shouted. "If you wrecked any of my projectors, I'll get the cops on your ass!"
"Stuff it, wimp," Chet said, and walked Vickie and himself out to the street. He glanced quickly up and down the main strip; then, still holding onto Vickie, he dashed across the street and scurried the two them into the darkness of the parking lot. He settled Vickie into the car, got behind the wheel, then sped away. The car raced down 14th Street, turned, and kept on going until they were safely out of the area. A few minutes later, the car slowed and stopped in a deserted shopping center parking lot.
"Are you all right?" he asked, turning to her.
"Yeah, I think so. God, if you hadn't come when you did, those girls would've torn me a new asshole."
"Where did they kick you?"
"Mostly in the chest," she said. She could still feel the dull pain pulsing below her breasts.
"Sit back against the seat."
She obeyed, and Chet gently ran his hands over her ribs to see if any were broken. "You sure you're okay? I can take you to the hospital."
"No, no, I'm fine, just a little shook up. I never should've gone in there."
"I hope nobody on the street saw us leave together. That fat guy in the bookstore was calling the police. We're lucky we got out of there before they arrived."
Vickie didn't understand. "What difference does it make? You're a cop yourself."
"Yeah," Chet explained, "but if we were still there when they came, they would've had to bust us with the rest of them. Otherwise my cover would be blown. And nobody in the uniform branch is supposed to know about you. I would've had a tough time explaining who you were without blowing your cover, too."
"You make us sound like spies."
"It's a hairy situation, but that's the way it's got to be if we want it to work. No one can know who we are. The slightest slip could ruin us. Stuff like that spreads like plague on the street."
Vickie relaxed on the bench seat. She knew she would have to be more careful in the future, and to never stray away from Chet's view. If he hadn't thought to come in after her, she could've been killed. It had been close, too close.
"I'll get you home now," Chet said, and put the car in gear. "You need rest."
"What I need even more than that," she said with a sigh, "is a cigarette. I left them in Hogart's."
As the car pulled away, Vickie heard a faint rumble of thunder in the sky. A few drops of spattered rain formed on the windshield.
SIX
Every morning at eight o'clock, a big, burly, sandy-haired man named Donald Lawrence would have to make a special trip to Fort Lincoln Cemetery on Baldensburg Road, and unlock the front gate so the gardeners and the landscaping crew could get inside. It was a job he had been doing for years; by then it had become routine. He would get out of bed, brush his teeth, put on his uniform, get in the car, call in ten-eight, and unlock the chain on the gate of Fort Lincoln Cemetery. No big deal. That was how he would begin every working day. He didn't expect Thursday morning to be any different.
Donald Lawrence was the chief of the Calvert City Police Department. Calvert City was one of the many small towns on the Maryland-side of the district line, with a population of fourteen hundred, and its own police force consisting of eight men, two patrol cars, two riot guns, and four portable radios. In the last two years, there had been one murder, two deaths due to natural causes, and a handfull of Β & E's, and maybe five assaults. Chief Lawrence didn't care that Calvert City was an inactive town; all that mattered was that it was his town.
He preferred the small municipal departments to the big ones. Many times, he had been offered jobs with the county and state forces, but he always turned them down. Too much red tape and bullshit, and not enough real police work. He liked his small town and small department. Being the chief, he picked his men himself. They were the finest officers he could find; he screened them personally, so there was no way an imcompetent man could be recruited. Everything ran the way he wanted it to: sharp, efficient, fast-acting, with no nonsense. He loved his job, and he couldn't imagine himself being anything but chief of police in Calvert City
The aspect he liked the most about Calvert City was the nature of the town itself. It was a sane town. Nothing really bad ever happened there, just the usual nickle-dime crap. New York averaged five armed bank robberies per day. Baltimore seemed to be having a barricade situation every weekend. And Washington D.C. was fast becoming the murder capital of the world, especially now with that psycho running around electrocuting girls. But Calvert City was free of all that. It was a nice, quiet town full of nice, quiet people.
Chief Lawrence made a quick round through the town, wheeling the shiny, white LTD, equipped with a shotgun rack and an Interceptor Visibar, down the tree-lined network of sleepy residential streets. He lighted a Winston, never taking his eyes from the road, then took a sip of not-so-fresh-perked coffee from 7-11. The car came out on South Dakota Avenue and turned at the Exxon station onto Bladensburg Road. A minute later, the morning sun filtered through the bars of the cemetery fence, and he slowed at the approaching entrance.
He pulled in, stopped the car, and noticed the irregularity as he got out. A large bundle lay at the cemetery gate. Squinting, he walked up to it. At first, he thought it was a newspaper drop which had been covered with plastic since it had rained earlier. But nobody makes newspaper drops at a cemetery. Fuckin' dirtballs, he thought, dumping their garbage in front of a graveyard. He bent down on one knee to get a closer look.
