Sunrise Highway

by Peter Blauner

  “You would never do that.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Kenny. You may not know as much as you think you know. If the whole shit house goes up in flames, you can’t predict who’s gonna get burned.”

  “This is beneath both of us.”

  “Who is talking to them, Kenny? Don’t make me ask you again.”

  The waitress brought them their specials, lava spills of tomato sauce covering up Prince Spaghetti Day, and finally gave Joey the bottle of Coors he’d ordered twenty minutes before.

  “One of the officers who was at the Lapidus crime scene may have seen something out of the ordinary.” Kenny spoke in a barely audible voice, hiding his mouth behind the napkin for a moment as he tucked it into his shirt collar. “It’s a developing situation.”

  Joey looked down the neck of his beer bottle, vapor rising like smoke from the barrel of a gun.

  “She say who else was there?” he asked.

  “Look, I’m getting this secondhand and I shouldn’t even be speaking about it.”

  “But you’re not denying it was a female officer talking to them. Half-Nelson tell them he was there too?” Joey looked over his shoulder again at Rattigan, who was trying to play slap-my-hand with the reluctant barmaid. “Both cases.”

  “You’re not seriously talking about throwing Billy the Kid under the bus?”

  “I’m just saying what’s true.” Joey started picking the label off his bottle.

  “After all he’s done for you?” There was something genuinely hurt and surprised in Kenny’s expression.

  “He’s had his day. You and me have our best ones ahead of us. Or we could, if this state investigation goes away.”

  “All right, enough.” Kenny tried to sort through the tangled strands on his plate. “I need to ask you something else now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is there anything I need to know about what happened to these women?” Kenny asked.

  “What are you saying?”

  “You know.” Kenny lowered his face toward the steaming pile, barely raising his volume. “There are other open cases and I’ve heard officers talk about what happens on these roads after midnight.”

  Joey stopped picking the label and laid his hands flat on the table.

  “How can you even ask me that?”

  “I have to. You know I do.”

  Joey took his time answering. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Then studied the back of his hands, a spot on his knife, candle wax spilled on the tablecloth that hadn’t been cleaned up, and the mass of whorls on his plate. Then he looked at Kenny, whose glasses were still clouded from the steam off his own plate. Despite Billy the Kid’s pleas, the East German protestors were back on CNN, asking for the Berlin Wall to come down. Things had to change, Joey realized. He needed to be more careful about what he picked out. And more fastidious about what he left dangling. He picked up his fork and began twirling it through the strands.

  “There are bad people in this world,” he said softly. “And there are good people. If you can’t tell the difference, I don’t know what we’re doing sitting at the same table.”

  19

  SEPTEMBER

  2017

  The former self-proclaimed President of All Long Island Pimps lived in a one-story shotgun house in Wyandanch with vacant lots on either side and a sticker on the front door for a security systems firm that had gone out of business years before.

  The “president” himself was a pale, long-haired, doe-eyed law school dropout named Ronald Alan Meltzer, who was sitting at a card table in the front room, looking over the photo array Lourdes had just put out for him. He was wearing a Gold’s Gym t-shirt with the sleeves cut off to display the muscles and tattoos he’d collected during his two prison bids for “pandering” and selling Viagra to clients without prescriptions. From the other rooms came sounds of simulated female ecstasy.

  “Don’t sweat it, Lucky,” Ronnie said when he saw the suspicious look Lourdes was giving B.B. “I ain’t pimpin’ no more. It’s just podcasting from the studio I set up down the hall.”

  “You mean like you got girls doing live-streaming?” B.B. appeared consternated, palming the back of his pompadour.

  “It’s not video and it’s not live.” Ronnie looked slightly put out. “It’s more like an audiobook that you can download and listen to whenever you want. Like in your car.”

  That would explain why there was so much traffic on the expressway, Lourdes thought.

  “We may need to check that out,” B.B. said, a little too avidly. “Your parole officer know what you’re up to?”

  “Maybe we can hold off on all that,” Lourdes said, trying to keep everyone focused. “Ronnie here says he’s trying to help us with our murder cases, so let’s keep our minds on the victims.”

  A breeze coming through the open window ruffled the white drapes and the five photos on the table. The Suffolk police and the DA still hadn’t helped. But through patient searches of cell phone records and newspaper clips, Lourdes had pieced together that at least two of the dead women in the pictures were escorts who’d been repped and promoted by Mr. Meltzer, formerly of Westhampton Beach. However, Ronnie himself was not a suspect at this point because both Allison Forster and Joyce Templeton had been killed while he was locked up.

  “Recognize any of the other girls?” Lourdes passed a hand over the array. “Bear in mind that obviously they could have had different names and somewhat different appearances when they worked for you.”

  Ronnie studied the photos more closely and then shook his head at Lourdes. “I feel you, Lucky. No one’s ever who they say they are.”

  “Who’s ‘Lucky’?” she asked. “You know me or something?”

  “I thought I did.” Ronnie gave her a cloudy look. “Didn’t they used to call you Lucky?”

  Lourdes shook her head, ignoring the way B.B. was snickering behind his wrist. It was going to be a long goddamn ride back to the squad. And an even longer couple of days at the squad after that. “Hey, the President of Pimps said he worked with Robles before. Showed total respect for her as a ‘professional.’” Every ringtone in Homicide would be changed to that song, “I’m up all night to get lucky.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t you, it was someone who looked like you.” Ronnie gave her a crooked love-me-anyway grin.

  “You tryna say you worked with a girl who looked like me?” Lourdes felt a flutter in her chest. “Like as an escort?”

  Ronnie stared back, calculating his legal status on parole. “Nah, I don’t work with escorts anymore. That’s not my thing. I manage performers. My bad.”

  “You sure now?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.

  “Anyway, you were asking me if I recognized some of these other girls, like Allison and Joyce.” He went back to davening over the photo array. “Man, I don’t know. These girls do so much to themselves you can’t recognize them. They get their tits done, their lips blown up, their fat sucked … Gets to where I could sleep with a girl, run into her six months later, and have no idea who she is anymore.”

  Don’t get distracted, Lourdes reminded herself. Don’t be thinking about Lucky being your sister or when this dude could have met her. That’s a shot in the dark anyway. You’re here about these women.

  “Stay with me now,” she said. “I was asking you about any clients your girls might have felt unsafe around.”

  “My girls never felt unsafe because I was always looking out for them,” Ronnie said, tattooed arms crossed defensively. “I never sent them out on calls except with a driver, who took them to the call and then brought them back. If she gets hurt, it’s bad for business. I lose my thirty percent and the driver loses his ten.”

  “My girl only gets sixty cents on the dollar?” Lourdes raised her voice to a squawk. “Oh hell no. What kinda shit is that?”

  “Come on, my man.” B.B. chided. “We’re talking about men paying for sex. Your girls must have run into some freaks.”

  “Everybody
pays for sex.” Ronnie shrugged. “One way or another.”

  “True that,” B.B. said, with a sad look at Lourdes, probably thinking of his wives and mistresses.

  Lourdes jumped in, to redirect them. “What I think Detective Borrelli is saying is that your girls must have reported back threatening situations so you could avoid booking those customers and endangering your other assets.”

  “Yeah, like, duh.” Ronnie’s face went slack. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

  B.B. wagged his chin at Lourdes: no need to swing at that pitch.

  Ronnie caught the byplay. “You want to know who the scariest freaks are?” he asked, getting an attitude. “You guys. The police.”

  “Yeah, right.” Lourdes pretended to be more concerned with the state of her manicure.

  “I’m serious. Cops are the most twisted with the girls.” Ronnie looked at B.B., as if expecting confirmation. “Not that I’m knocking all police officers. Some of my drivers were retired Long Island PD. And some of my best customers, and the biggest tippers for the girls. But you want to talk about freaky. Hoo boy. People who’ve got easy access to handcuffs and batons are off the hook.”

  Lourdes felt her face get hot, remembering her own unauthorized use of police gear with Mitchell.

  “Were any of these police officers violent with the women you knew?” she asked.

  “What happens if I say yes?” Ronnie stuck a lip out.

  “What do you want, a little gold star?” B.B. drew back his hand as if to smack him. “Answer the lady’s question.”

  “I start talking about cops choking out prostitutes, who’s gonna protect my ass?” Ronnie hugged himself.

  “From who?” B.B. asked.

  “Who do you think?” Ronnie said. “The police.”

  “We’re the police,” Lourdes said. “And you got nothing to worry about if you answer our questions honestly.”

  “I’m not talking about you, Lucky. I’m talking about the police out here. I’m taking a chance just speaking to you about this.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Lourdes rolled her eyes. “In the first place, you’re not doing anything wrong at the moment—you’re just assisting an investigation. In the second place, it’s paranoid. How would any other police even know you’re talking to us? Think you’re that important?”

  “Uh, you want to look out my front window?” Ronnie said drolly, pointing out the window with a tatted-up arm as heavily illustrated as a comic book. “They’ve been here like five minutes.”

  “What the fuck,” said B.B., staring.

  Lourdes pushed aside the curtain and saw two Suffolk County police officers in Ronnie’s driveway, standing behind the Charger they’d borrowed from Queens Narcotics after the transmission on their Impala had punked out this morning.

  “They come by all the time,” Ronnie mumbled. “I think they’re expecting freebies or something.”

  “Hey, guys.” Lourdes gave a friendly wave, trying not to be unnerved. “What’s up?”

  The officers, both white and both gym rats, took turns hate-fucking her with their eyes and then went back to studying the rear of the Charger. One was holding a license plate reader and the other was taking notes.

  “NYPD.” She displayed her shield, trying to contain her annoyance.

  Be fair. A Hispanic woman in plainclothes at a known pimp’s house. Could she blame them for wondering?

  The officer taking notes looked at the shield and made it clear he was rating her as a chick anyway. “Everything all right in there?”

  “Yeah, we’re good,” she said.

  The other officer was still looking her up and down like he didn’t buy she was a real cop. “What are you doing out here?”

  She resisted the urge to tell him to mind his business. “Just chasing a bum steer. You know how that goes sometimes.”

  Both officers looked nonplussed.

  “We just like to know who’s in the hood,” said the one with the license plate reader.

  He didn’t sound like he was in a particular hurry to smooth out the misunderstanding. B.B. moved to stand beside Lourdes, showing solidarity but not bothering to display his own tin. “And so now you know,” he said. “Thank you, officers.”

  They took their time going back to the RMP parked curbside as Lourdes puckered her lips, signifying for B.B.’s benefit. Just like to know who’s in the hood?

  “What did I tell you?” Ronnie pushed back from the photo array. “I can’t be seen talking to you all.”

  “Well, you already have been seen.” Lourdes gave him full-on duck-face. “So don’t worry about it anymore.”

  “That’s supposed to put me at ease?” Ronnie asked. “Fuck that. I’m so done.”

  From the other rooms, the industry of pleasure was continuing. Though Lourdes noticed that some of the women were starting to sound bored and resentful.

  “Just give us the names of the girls who had a problem and you can go back to satisfying your subscribers,” she said.

  “Actually, we have advertisers too.” Ronnie sniffed. “But never mind about that. I just want you guys out of here.”

  “Names, phone numbers, and email addresses,” Lourdes said. “Sooner we get them, sooner we’re out of your hair.”

  “And where you gonna be if this comes back on me?” Ronnie asked in an imploring voice. “You see how they’re watching.”

  B.B. glanced out the window, making sure the cops were gone, and put his hands in his pockets. Maybe a little spooked himself.

  “We’re part of a task force that has state police and federal agents on it,” Lourdes said, dispensing with all prior sweetness. “If they start going through the other rooms in your house, asking for IDs and green cards, you’re not going to be doing any more podcasts. In fact, we talk to your parole officer, you’ll have way bigger problems than the local PD taking down license plate numbers.”

  Corny TV cop crap. Ronnie, as a former law student, knew as well as she did that they wouldn’t bother. But who needed the further hassle?

  “You’re so cute, Lucky.” Ronnie threw up his hands. “Why you gotta be so mean?”

  “Get us those names and numbers,” she said.

  20

  OCTOBER

  1989

  It was almost eight o’clock on Halloween night in Riverhead and Amy Nelson was having another sinking spell. One of the worst in a while. Which was more than irritating, since nothing that dramatic had happened to her that day—just a half dozen home visits, typing up reports for Family Court, and forty-five minutes buying candy for the office costume party that always ran on too long. But somehow she hadn’t gotten around to eating anything herself and now she was suffering for it.

  Her blood sugar was dropping. She felt weak and shaky. The back of her mouth was dry. All she wanted to do was get in the front door, scarf down some leftovers, don her favorite bunchy wool socks, and watch an episode of Hunter with Fred Dryer and her secret crush Sgt. Dee Dee. She reached into her shoulder bag to get her keys and then stopped.

  The blue garbage can with the bungee cord on the lid to keep out the raccoons who lived in the woods at the end of her cul-de-sac was to the right of her front door.

  A natural southpaw, she almost always put it on the left.

  Something fluttered in the bushes separating her place from the neighbors. Cicadas were chirping. The waxing moon appeared to have an iridescent aura around it in the autumn chill. Candles flickered in the jack-o’-lanterns on the neighbors’ porch, but they were all out trick-or-treating at the more populated end of the street. Of course, it was possible that she was just a little muddleheaded from having low blood sugar. But she made sure the gun she’d carried since her cop days was where she could reach it in her bag before she unlocked the door.

  * * *

  The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had just arrived at the Boys and Girls Club in Port Jefferson Station. Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Raphael. Kicking shell and taking names. The
kids at the club, mostly eight and under, screamed with delight as the Turtles began tossing out candy. And of course, everyone wanted to touch Leonardo’s sword.

  * * *

  All the lights were off in the house, except for the one she always left on in the living room. She told herself that its purpose was to discourage burglars by making them think there was always someone home. But lately she’d begun to wonder if she wasn’t doing it more for herself. Pretending it wasn’t just the hamster and the parakeet waiting for her. The lamp had become a little beacon of faith that she wanted to keep lit. A sign that as she closed in on forty, with her last serious relationship three years behind her, she still held on to hope that she wouldn’t be alone for the rest of her days. Yes, she still had work in the social services. But what did that amount to? Taking care of other people’s families. Half a life for Half-Nelson. She just prayed her mother wouldn’t call tonight and make her feel worse by asking if she’d met anybody.

  The candy bowl in the foyer was still full, and it was probably too late to expect any ghosts or Power Rangers to come calling. The kitchen clock seemed abnormally loud in the dimness of the house. She turned on the hallway light and was relieved to see that her road bike was exactly where she’d left it, leaning against the wall. But why did the seat look raised? Like it had been adjusted and pulled up so the stubby legs on her five-foot-two frame wouldn’t quite reach the ground?

  She really did need to get something in her stomach as quickly as possible.

  She walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light switch. The glare off the linoleum floor hurt her eyes. The oven clock was blinking 5:23 over and over, as if the power had gone off and come back on at that time.

  Had she really left that Snoopy-and-Woodstock coffee mug next to the sink, instead of in it? From the corner of her eye, she saw something go past the window over the kitchen sink. A knot formed in her stomach. It was just the shadow of the dogwood in silvering moonlight.

  The hamster cage was on the kitchen table, with Herman running frantically on his wheel inside it. Orange juice was what was immediately required for the low blood sugar. She opened the door of the refrigerator, thinking she’d just drink straight from the carton without getting a glass. The one benefit to living alone. The Minute Maid full pulp quart was exactly where she’d left it. But the little glass insulin bottles were beside it, instead of on the lower shelf where she normally kept them. But why was the one on the left already empty? And why would she have put it back if she’d used it up?