Night bait, page 7
"Hi," she said.
He squinted at her and cracked open his beer. "Who are you?"
"Vickie." Her voice trembled.
"Oh yeah, one of Nora's friends. She told me that you wanted to be one of my girls. That's a wise decision. I was beginning to think you were a freeloader."
She couldn't think of anything to say. Instead, she just looked at him with a repressed fear in her eye. Until that moment, she had never had the opportunity to get a good look at him. But now this shadow of a man stood right in front of her under the harsh light. He was tall, with brown, shoulder-length hair hanging in greasy strings, not seeming to have been washed in weeks. Guessing his age was impossible; he appeared young and old at the same time. He needed a shave badly, and the texture of his face held a quality of ruddiness—hard and tight like so many of the street-worn people. He wore a dark pair of corduroys and a bleached jeans jacket with no sleeves. He stared back at her with sick, yellow eyes. As he swallowed a mouthful of beer, he skirted around the counter and sat down right next to her on the couch.
"How long you been a hooker, baby?" he asked, a trickle of foam bubbling at the corner of his lips.
"I'm not—I mean, I've never done it before."
"But you're going to, right?"
"Yes," she lied, still hanging on to her previous plan of fleeing in the morning.
He flashed a repulsive, brown grin. There seemed to be moss growing between the gaps in his teeth. "That's good," he said. "I always like a girl who cooperates. Makes it that much easier, you know. Sometimes I'll get a girl who won't cooperate. Then I have to do things to them that I don't want to do. You know, a little motivation for their own good. Do you know what I'm talking about, baby?"
She nodded, keeping her face in front.
His adam's apple wriggled under his throat as he took another hefty slug of beer. "I don't like to do that to girls, but when they get to be a pain in the ass, I have no choice. I mean, business is business. And every now and then, I'll get a girl who decides she don't like it here anymore, and she runs out on me. That really gets my goat. Hell, just last month, I had a girl run off. You know what I did?"
Vickie shook her head.
"I had to fuck her up. She thought she could get away, the stupid bitch. I got people I deal to all over this city, all ready to do me a favor, you know? They're like my eyes and ears; nothing gets by me. This one junkie, Gimp, he calls me up the same day she splits, and says he knows where she's hanging out. So I tell him to give her a going over. Boy, old Gimp fucked that cunt's face up something good. Ain't no way anybody'll ever look at her again. I just thought I'd tell you what happens to girls who try to duck, just so you don't get any ideas. But I can tell just by looking at you; you'd never run out on me, would you?"
"Oh no, Dutch, I promise," she said, almost pleading. "I'd never do that." She thought that she was going to be sick.
"That's good, baby; that's real good. I'm your man now, and I like a girl who comes through for her man. You take care of me, and I'll take care of you ..." He leaned over to her and slid his hands over her breast, squeezing. "And you can do me a big favor tonight. See, I got a couple of friends of mine coming over in a few minutes. They're regular customers, big boys from out of town, and I always like to treat my special customers right. I'll be selling them a load of high-grade smack, and they'll be paying me some really big, big money, you know? I like to give my regulars a little more than what they pay for, if you know what I mean. Yeah, baby; you, me and my buddies, we'll all have a great time."
He pushed his face over to hers and kissed her, while his roving hand slipped under her shirt and found its way to her breasts. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, gently at first, then suddenly harder, hurting her. His scuzzy jaw opened and closed over her mouth as if he were trying to take bites, and he pushed his tongue in. Vickie seemed to shrink as he drew nearer. All she could think about was how much she wanted to throw up. His dirty, unshaven face scratched against her cheek like Brillo, and his body smelled rancid, like stale cooking grease and horse sweat. He continued slobbering into her mouth, exhaling in wet gushes, the stink of beer and rotten teeth fuming into her nostrils. She knew how pointless it would be to resist him; she could do nothing except let him go on. The more she pretended to like it, the better it would be for her later. Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced herself to put her arms around him and to spread her legs when his hand left her chest and moved down her belly, then clamped onto the snap of her pants. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, she thought as he popped her pants open. Why did I ever come to this place?
His hand felt like oily leather on her flesh. But just as ' fingers began to wiggle toward her crotch, the doorbell rang. He yanked his hand out from between her legs and went to the door without a word. Instantly, Vickie thought: Relief! But then relief turned to horror when she realized that the interruption only meant that more people would be raping her in a few minutes. Dutch's buddies. She pulled her shirt down and refastened her pants while Dutch opened the front door and showed in four men, all dressed in expensive suits. At least they all look clean, she consoled herself, not like that unwashed scumbag, Dutch.
"Don't go away, baby," Dutch told her. "Remember what I told you I wanted you to do."
Vickie nodded in response, and Dutch and his four friends walked into one of the bedrooms to do their dealing.
The second the bedroom door closed, the idea of running out the door immediately dashed into her mind. But then the memory of the last girl who did that came and hovered over her head like some contagious plague. So, she remained, resigning to the inevitability of the ordeal at hand.
A few minutes later, Dutch stuck his mangy head out of the door. "Come on, baby. Let's go. We're ready for you now."
Something ugly slid down her throat, and she picked herself up off the couch and stepped into the bedroom. Dutch was sitting in a chair in the corner, while the other four men were already taking off their clothes. No way out, Vickie stripped off her garments and pushed them aside with her foot; all the while, she did her best not to show the abhorrence she felt. Without their fancy suits on, she saw that Dutch's four pals were nothing more than fat, disgusting slobs with hair all over their backs.
Totally surrendered, she lay down on the brown-stained mattress of the bed.
And the four men proceeded to violate her body in every way imaginable.
They did things to her that she didn't even know about. She felt like a soft punching bag for their heavy bodies. At times, they were all doing things to her at once, forcing her up on all fours; one in front of her guiding her head; one under her, thrusting his hips; one tugging on her breasts, pinching; and the last one jarring into her from behind. Her body seemed in a state of constant motion, never a minute's rest, never a moment when someone wasn't prodding her with something.
They slapped at her; they dribbled on her; their fingers felt like fat, sweaty worms crawling on her flesh. They flipped her over on her back and took turns, trading off positions. Two held her feet and spread her legs apart, while another jerked his hips viciously between them. In the upper corner of her eye, she noticed in disgust that the fourth man was masturbating directly over her face.
They just went on and on.
Her stomach heaved; she hacked; she gagged; tears spurted from her closed eyes; the smell of semen and male perspiration pierced her sinuses, and made her sick and dizzy.
Still, they continued to pound themselves into her, contorting her body to inhuman shapes until it was stretched and sore. When Dutch got out of his spectator's seat and joined in, she slowly began to fade away; things around her went from light to dark, dark to light, over and over. Her arms and legs began to grow limp, and her head whipped up and down with each thrust, as if her neck were made of rubber.
Then, she passed out.
Vickie had never felt so much pain at one time when she woke up the next morning. She lay sprawled across the bed like a mangled starfish, still uncovered and naked. At first, she didn't know where she was. But then the entire festival came back to her. She was completely immobile; whenever she tried to move, surges of pain shot through every inch of her body. Her joints were stiff and ragged, and the rasping pain between her legs felt like someone had pounded her there with a meat tenderizer. Her groin and her thighs were covered with aching blue bruises. Flaky, dry patches scaled her face and her abdomen. Her hair was all matted with the same substance. She wasn't aware of any part of her body that didn't throb with pain. Even her ears hurt. Probably used them for handles, she thought with a grimace of distilled hate.
She heard the door open, but was too weak to even lift her head. A moment later, the shabby face of Dutch towered above her, and he looked down at her with a lewd smile. "Hey, baby," he said, "you were dynamite last night. Hope they didn't rough you up too bad. Yeah, you were really great. And, shit, when your lights went out! They really got off on that."
She could still smell his shitty breath. Somehow, she managed a limp nod.
"You can take today off," he went on. "You look a little ragged out. Just take it easy today. You can get on the streets tomorrow." He ran a dirty finger along her cheek in a cheap gesture of gratitude. Then he left.
She wished that she could get up and open a window—she'd have to let some fresh air in. Everything reeked with fumes of organic decay. The room stank; the bed stank; even she stank. She knew she would have to force herself up, open the window, and get into the shower. Gritting her teeth, she rocked her body up to a sitting position. There was a sick schlop when her bare back disengaged itself from the slick, putrid mattress. Again, she found that she could not move any farther, so she just sat there, naked and vulnerable, her shoulders hunched forward like a frightened child's. The next thing she knew, her body was jerking spasmodically, the tears leaking out of her eyes.
She cried for a long time.
Vickie still hadn't moved when Nora came in. She set her purse down on the chair and looked at Vickie with hard yet sympathetic eyes.
"Jesus, Vickie. What happened?"
"I got gang-banged by Dutch and a bunch of his friends," she said, swallowing. "They wouldn't stop. It was horrible. And they kept doing it to me even when I was unconscious." She started crying again, unable to help it.
Nora sat down on the bed and put an arm around her. "Don't let it get to you. You'll be all right. You'll see."
"Nora," Vickie sniffled, "I can't live like this. It's worse than being a slave."
"I know."
Vickie lowered her voice to a whisper. "Then let's go. Let's leave this place, get out of here and never come back."
Instantly, Nora grabbed Vickie by the shoulders and shook her. "You asshole!" she said in a wild whisper, "Don't you ever say that! Don't even think that, you hear! If Dutch heard you talking like that, he'd snuff you out like a candle. He's done it lots of times. We can't leave; that would be suicide. Dutch has people all over the place. We wouldn't be gone ten minutes, and he'd know. I know it's bad, but it's all you've got. You've got to live with it if you want to survive. That's the name of the game."
"But I can't stand this. I think I'd rather be dead."
"Well you just take one step out that door and you will be. Just be glad you're still alive, Vickie. There's a million girls who weren't so lucky. Now, listen to me." She shook her again, hard. "Just lay low, do as you're told, and you'll stay alive. You hear me?"
"Yes," she peeped.
"And don't ever talk about running out." Nora paused and looked at Vickie closely. "Christ, you're a mess. Let's get you cleaned up."
Nora slipped her hand under Vickie's arm and lifted her to her feet. Keeping a grip on her, she inched Vickie into the tiny bathroom. Vickie wavered back and forth as her friend yanked back the hole-ridden shower curtain and turned on the water.
"Scrub yourself up," Nora said, and handed her a small oval of smudged soap. "Get all that cum off you, and hold on to the showerhead so you don't fall down. I'll be in the bedroom."
"Thanks." Vickie stepped into the shower, gripping the stem of the faucet with one hand, rubbing the soap around her body with the other. At the time, the rusty water felt like spring rain, and it washed all the crusty filth down the drain. She wished she could stay in the shower forever, as though it were a sanctuary of purity in the middle of a debauched, grime-coated world.
When she was clean, she stepped out and gently padded her sore flesh with a towel hanging on the rack. Then she walked into the bedroom.
"There's some clean clothes in the dresser," Nora said, sitting in the chair with her purse in her hands. "They might be big on you, but you can't wear your clothes. I think those guys wiped themselves with 'em."
As Vickie dressed, she noticed that Nora had become occupied with something in the corner. "What are you doing?"
"Gotta take a bang," Nora said without looking up. Below her, on the floor, she had assembled a candle over which she held a spoon, so tarnished it was black. Vickie stood still and watched as her friend placed what appeared to be an eyedropper with a needle on the end of it into a small dab of shimmering liquid that formed in the base of the spoon. A piece of yellow rubber tubing constricted tightly around Nora's arm, the veins blue and throbbing. Nora jabbed the needle into the biggest vein and slowly squeezed the black bulb of the dropper. In an open-mouthed gape of a smile, Nora sank back into the chair and looked up at shock-frozen Vickie.
Nora said: "Welcome to paradise."
Vickie learned the ropes of prostitution quickly. Her first night out, she did everything Nora had told her, the way an army recruit obeys his drill sergeant. "You always have to be careful about cops," Nora had told her. "It's no big deal anymore; if you get busted, they usually drop the charges because they got their hands full with real criminals. But still it's a pain in the ass; you usually have to spend the night in jail; plus, it costs Dutch a hundred bucks to bail you out. So if you think a guy's a cop, never make a proposition yourself. Let him do it. If a cop solicits you, then you can get off on entrapment. And don't agree to do anything kinky unless the money's right. Never go with a guy who looks like he might be a sicko. You don't want to get yourself into something you can't handle."
The going street rates were thirty dollars for oral sex, forty-five for intercourse, and considerably more for anything else. There were several ways to make a pickup; according to Nora, it was really a matter of preference. The most common way was to just stand around on the street and wait for a John to walk by. Once the proposition had been made, the hooker and the John would decide where to go. Usually, they would take a cab to one of the many whorehouses clustered near Scott Circle. That's where the John would always get stuck with an extra charge for the rent of the room. Sometimes, if the hooker knew the John or knew him to be a regular, she would allow him to skip the cabfare, and they would drive to a whorehouse-motel in the John's personal car. Occasionally, the hooker could get the John to settle for a roll in his car. This was the favorite technique among the D.C. prostitutes; it was easier to blow or to screw a guy in his car because it skipped the long taxi drive and saved a lot of time. And if a hooker really wanted a fast trick, she would lower the rates a little, pull her John into a peep-show stall in any adult bookstore, do her thing, and leave. One other popular way to pick up a dupe was to stand around on the streetcorners and walk up to the cars waiting at the traffic lights. Of course, that could be dangerous to a new girl; it usually took a few months of steady hustling before a girl could tell whether a guy was straight or crazy, and the last thing Vickie needed was to hop into a car with a normal-looking guy who later turned out to be a sicko. Every once in a while, a girl would run into a big money roller who decided to skip the call girl routine and go directly to the street. Nora said that one time a John had offered her a thousand dollars to spend the night with him.
"What did you do?" Vickie asked.
"I took him up on it," Nora replied. "But don't you ever do that."
"Why not?"
"Because you're still green. Sometimes cops use big money as bait. Also, that's a giveaway sign of a weirdo. Every few months some girl'll drive off with a John, and they'll find her body a couple of weeks later. If you ever take a guy up on a big money trick, make damn sure he's straight before you get into the car with him. There's a lot of sick motherfuckers in this world, and ninety-nine percent of them come to D.C. for ass. Until you know what you're doing, just stick to the safe stuff. Use the whorehouses and nothing else. And steer clear of anyone who looks like he might be bad."
Vickie followed Nora's instructions to the letter. When it got right down to it, she didn't think she could do it. But she did anyway, because she couldn't stop thinking about what might happen to her if she didn't. Whenever she felt like she couldn't go through with it, she recalled the desperate image of Nora pushing a spike into her arm. Vickie knew that if she didn't start bringing in some cash, Dutch would make her a junkie too.
On her first night out, Vickie stood next to one of the adult bookstores and watched what the other hookers did. There, she discovered how rare it was for a John to approach a girl. Most of the girls were the ones doing the approaching, but Vickie felt apprehensive about doing it herself. She couldn't picture herself actually walking up to a man she didn't know and asking him if he wanted to ball her for money.
