by Iceberg Slim
“This cocksucker is a peckerwood!” Shetani exclaimed harshly.
The victim frantically shook his head and tried to speak through the gag. Shetani drew a Luger from his robe pocket and squatted down close to the trembling figure.
“I’m gonna let you rap, bitch face. If you scream, I’ll spill your brains. Don’t say shit until I say you can. Got it?”
The youngster nodded. Eli removed the gag.
“Go back to the Square and look out for the girls,” Shetani ordered the twins. They got in the van and drove away.
Shetani said, “Now you can con me for your life.”
The kid burst into a torrent of words. “I ain’t white! I’m a nigger, a Creole. I ain’t white! You got the wrong guy. I don’t even know you! I ain’t done nothin’ to you. Please don’t kill me, mister. Please. You’re making a mis—”
Shetani ripped open a bloody rill on the side of his head with the barrel of the Luger.
“Shut up, chili pimp asshole. You turned out Maxine, my baby sister. You deny that?”
The kid’s mouth gaped open. He wailed, “Her brother…She told me she had no one except her old man, doing a double dime in Sing Sing…I didn’t really turn her out. She was turning tricks when we hooked up. Take me to her and she’ll tell you I ain’t lyin’.”
Shetani whipped out his organ, fully erected by his kill lust. He said icily, “She left you because you kept your foot in her ass and took her trick money.”
The kid recoiled from Shetani’s swollen penis with wild eyes spewing tears. “Please, mister, don’t make me suck your dick. I can’t do that, mister,” he blubbered.
Shetani shoved himself closer to the piteous face. “Do it, cunt, and split the city, and I’ll let you live,” Shetani whispered hoarsely.
The kid lightly touched the bluish hammerhead with his lips and vomited violently. Shetani shoved the snout of the Luger against his temple to blow out his brains. But even as he squeezed the trigger, some childlike quality in the kid’s upturned face, so ethereal and angelic in the starlight, forced him to thunder the shot into the earth.
Shetani stared down at the kid as he collapsed and lay still. He kneeled beside the kid to find his pulse and listen for his heartbeat. He neither felt nor heard anything. He straddled the lifeless form and tried the CPR he had seen paramedics do on the streets of Harlem countless times. He rhythmically pressed his palms against the kid’s chest and gave him mouth-to-mouth air until he was drenched with sweat. Finally, he gave up and got to his feet. He staggered into his car and drove like a demon toward Times Square.
It was 6:00 p.m. in L.A. when Rucker’s flight from New York sliced through balmy August air and landed at International Airport.
Crane embraced Rucker on the sidewalk outside the terminal. “It’s great to see you, Russ!” he exclaimed. “Welcome home.”
Rucker grunted and turned away to help a skycap load bags into the rear of Crane’s station wagon. Crane helped to load the rest of the bags before he got under the wheel of the wagon. Rucker’s generous tip pasted a toothy grin on the skycap’s mug. Rucker got in beside Crane. Crane moved the wagon into traffic.
“Leo, I can’t understand how that hooker problem could escalate to the max so fast. What the hell happened?”
Crane stopped the wagon at a red light. His lean face in a spot of streetlamp was tight as he stared through the windshield. “At first, it wasn’t like an escalation. A mob of strange hookers just descended suddenly.”
Crane drew a deep breath as he pulled the wagon away on the green. “Like the other guys on the squad will tell you, the first wave of hookers none of us could bust. The big second wave of hookers we’ve been busting by the dozens. We should have everything under control in a few weeks.”
Rucker said, “That first wave is why the second came in. New waves will keep coming as long as that first wave is immune to arrest. It’s odd that none of them has taken a fall to any of our undercover guys. Any ideas as to why not?”
Crane shook his long head. “None. Now, I look like a sodbuster instead of a cop, so I gotta look like a trick to a hooker. Right? Well, I pulled to the curb for a dozen of them the first night they showed. None gave me a proposition on Sunset, from Normandie to Havenhurst. All of them came to the car and either ignored me or cracked BS like ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were a friend of mine,’ before they split. We’ve rotated our vehicles from the permanent-impound lot, switched in local and out-of-state plates. We’ve even used our personal cars. Maybe one of our guys…”
“Stop it, Leo. You know better than that,” Rucker said sharply as he loosened his tie and wearily combed his fingers through his silver-streaked blond hair. He dropped his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. He pondered the possibility that someone had staked out the task force at its staging point and shot its members with a telescopic camera. Perhaps he or she had peddled or given the close-up shots to the new hookers’ pimps. Rucker silently vowed to get to the bottom of the problem and run all the new whores out of Hollywood on a rail.
Shortly, the muted roar of the wagon and the silky whispering of its tires on the freeway eased Rucker into a catnap. Crane drove to Western Avenue and Sunset Boulevard before he broke the long silence. “Hey, Russ, we’re in freak city.”
Rucker opened his eyes and straightened up on the seat. The wagon inched westward on Sunset in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Rucker’s jaw muscles knotted as he stared at the busy sidewalk arena of mean-faced black and brown snatchers, slashers, and stompers, slit-eyeing the tourist sheep. Gargoylish homosexual queens—blond, bewigged, and decked out in outrageous drag—jiggled bony behinds stuck out and melon-red tongues to snare the kinkiest tricks walking and riding.
Rucker murmured, “As always, the criminal scum floats back with dogass hookers.”
Crane nodded agreement. “Yeah, robbery and assault beefs have shot up since you left.”
The traffic thinned a few blocks farther west on Sunset. The detectives spotted two black and two white young working girls dressed in colorful halters and short shorts. They were lounging against the retaining wall of a parking lot, hawkeyeing traffic. Crane pulled into a parking space twenty-five yards away and cut off the wagon’s engine and lights. He recognized them as part of the Shetani stable.
Almost immediately, a pickup truck pulled up in front of the foursome. Rucker said, “That’s Reggie Stone, on our squad.”
The four hookers ignored the truck. The cop driver pulled it into traffic. Within five minutes, three of the girls left in trick cars.
Ten minutes later, a flashy Buick Regal double-parked in front of the remaining girl, a high-yellow beauty.
Crane said, “That’s Phil Wexler in the Buick, one of our guys.”
The cops watched the girl ignore him. The undercover car gunned away.
Rucker said, “You got any Excedrin?”
Crane touched the ignition key. “Not a one, but there’s a liquor store in the next block.”
Rucker waved a hand forward. “Let’s go.”
Crane turned on the engine and lights. He started to turn the front wheels toward traffic.
“Shut off the lights and engine!” Rucker ordered. He dipped his head. They stared as a mammoth black dude in an out-of-style gabardine suit with rust shoes and accessories alit from a battered gold ’73 Eldorado parked at the curb in front of the bantam hooker. He walked up close to her and crooned, “I’m Lovely Leon. We’ve been seeing each other around, pretty mama. I’m hip you got eyes for me. ’Scuse me for waitin’ so long to cut in. You sho’ a lucky ho, ’cause this mornin’ I’m adoptin’ you for my own, right here and now. Let’s ride and put our wonderful shit together.”
She said, “I got a man. Now, let me work.” She turned her head and ignored him. He seized her wrists and slammed her into his chest. He leaned down and bit her earlobe. She struggled and screamed, “Help!” A crowd appeared.
Rucker said, “I know that joker from the Seventy-seventh.”
Leon glanced down the sidewalk at the officers and released the girl. She split through the crowd and disappeared. He flashed gold teeth and flung out his upturned palms toward the officers as they reached him.
Crane holstered his gun and quickly frisked him. Leon whined, “Officers, ain’t nothin’ wrong went down here…just a little hassle with my lady.”
Rucker moved in close to give Leon a shot in the shoulder with the heel of a hand. Leon stared at Rucker for a long moment before he exclaimed, “Well, ain’t this a bitch! It’s my man, Sergeant Rucker.”
“Leon Scott, let’s go talk,” Rucker said as he grabbed Leon’s arm and walked him down the sidewalk toward the wagon. Crane dispersed the crowd and followed closely behind.
Crane and Rucker seated Leon Scott between them on the front seat of the wagon. Rucker gave him a second, more detailed frisk. He discovered a small glassine bag of grass inside the lining of Leon’s tie. He found six fake Cartier wristwatches on Leon’s right forearm.
Rucker said, “Let’s go, Leo.” Crane turned on the engine and lights. Leon’s flat, broad face reflected severe alarm.
“Sergeant, that ain’t even a ounce of grass. And them watches ain’t real, just some slum for the suckers. Gimme a break!” Leon said with a quaver.
Crane cut the wagon into traffic. Rucker said coldly, “Leon, that wasn’t your girl that we saw you assault…or try to kidnap. You lied to me, so I’m arresting you for disturbing the peace, for possession of the grass, and for possession of counterfeit, or maybe stolen merchandise for sale.”
Leon groaned, “C’mon Sergeant, you know them pieces ain’t real. Please don’t bust me…I’m on paper!” Leon dropped his head on his knees and moaned.
Rucker winked at Crane and jerked his head toward the upcoming corner. Crane made a right and parked on the side street. Crane lit a cigarette and went to sit on the stoop of a vacant house adjacent to the wagon.
Rucker said softly, “All right, Leon, straighten up, and let’s talk.” Leon sat erect and stared ahead. Rucker said, “How long have you been out of the joint?”
Leon dropped his massive hands to his lap and popped his knuckles. “Six months or so. I did eight years in Q on twenty.”
“I remember the case. You firebombed a whorehouse to get even with a hooker that dumped you for another guy. You almost killed three people…How’s Sadie?”
Leon half whispered, “Mama’s fine. I saw her yesterday.”
“Where are you living?”
“In my ride, temporarily.”
“Leon, you’re really pitiful. You never had the knack to mack even when you were young. Now you’re past forty, out on parole, and I see you try to muscle that hooker into working for you.”
Rucker paused to pat Leon’s shoulder. “You’re a master carpenter. Do something worthwhile with your life. Do it for you, do it for Sadie.”
Leon lifted his chin haughtily. “Shit, I can mack good as any of these chumps out here. I just been gettin’ bad breaks.”
Rucker shook his head. “I see you dying in the street or in the joint, sucker. But it’s your ass…Let’s wind up our business.”
Leon turned his head and stared at Rucker with saucer eyes. “Business, Sergeant? I ain’t gonna have no bread till I down the ticks.”
Rucker leaned into Leon’s face and ground his fist into his rib cage. “You jive bastard! You or any other cocksucker have never known me to take a bribe. All I want from you is info. If you’re dry, then I’ll bust you, and you can finish your bit in Q.”
Leon moved away from Rucker. “ ’Scuse me, Sergeant, ast me and I’ll tell it if I know it.”
“About two weeks ago, a gang of hookers, probably in one stable, hit Hollywood. Shortly, they were followed by a larger gang of unconnected hookers.”
Leon nodded. Rucker said, “Tell me what you know about the first gang.”
Leon loosened his tie. “I heard they all from the Apple and alla them belong to one black dude.”
“What’s his name or street moniker?”
“I don’t know, ain’t nobody seen him, and don’t nobody know him.”
“Find out who he is and where he lives and anything else you can get on the girls. Call in your info in early afternoon.”
Rucker scribbled a number on a piece of notebook paper and shoved it into Leon’s shirt pocket. Rucker scooped the grass and watches off the dashboard ledge and stuffed them into Leon’s suit pocket. “You’re free to go, Leon.”
Leon stalled and fidgeted on the seat. “ ’Scuse me, Sergeant, but I, ah…wonder if you could loan me the bucks to cop a hotel pad till I down this slum…Livin’ in my ride keeps me sleepy and tired. I ain’t gonna be sharp enough to follow the ho’s and the action on the fast track late at night. Will ya, huh, Sergeant?”
Rucker took his wallet from his jacket pocket. He extracted a twenty and waved it like a club before Leon’s face. “Leon, don’t try to pimp on me for this twenty. I’ll hurt you bad, boy, if you don’t pay it back soon or deliver the info I need.”
Leon took the bill to his trouser pocket. “Thanks, Sergeant. I ain’t goin’ to fuck you around. I ain’t crazy.”
“Get out of my face, Leon, and take care of business.”
Leon slid across the seat and exited the wagon. Crane rose from his seat on the stoop of the vacant house and hurried to enter the wagon. Rucker stretched and yawned. “Go slowly through the rest of the sewer before you take me home.”
Crane U-turned back to Sunset. Rucker eye-swept both sides of the boulevard as he made a rough count of new hookers. He also scrutinized the drivers and license plates of a number of Rolls and wildly customized Lincolns and Cadillacs.
Rucker said, “The snitch told me that the new girls belong to one unknown pimp from the Apple. We, the whole squad, must make it a priority to stop and check every strange black male who fits the pimp profile. I mean, whether he walks or rides the boulevard in a pimpmobile.”
Crane shook his head. “Russ, if it’s true, the guy’s a wizard. He’s controlling fifteen to twenty girls. I’m in constant high risk of my old lady controlling me.”
Rucker smiled. “Yes, the fact that our undercover guys have been buffaloed indicates a master pimp in charge.” Rucker sighed. “Leo, we’re in large trouble.”
The wagon cruised past a cluster of new girls at Havenhurst, posed languidly, like slick magazine models, in rhinestoned near-bikinis.
“Russ, those brazen bitches are an insult to all vice cops. I’m going to celebrate when we drive them out.”
“I’ll join you, Leo, and let’s hope it’s soon,” Rucker said as he swiveled his head to stare at a handsome black dude driving a jazzed-up orchid Continental. “You see that, Leo?”
“Yeah. The next time I see him, I’ll stop him.”
A block away, Crane left-turned off Sunset into Rucker’s street. In the middle of the block, Crane pulled the wagon into the driveway of Rucker’s home.
After the luggage had been unloaded, Rucker and Crane drank beer in the den. They watched a few minutes of the late news on TV. The segment focusing on the Sunset hookers working the car tricks came on, to open with the question: “Where are the police?”
Rucker snorted and lunged from his chair to turn off the set. Crane rose from the couch. “Well, Russ, I guess I’ll get back to hooker land.” Rucker followed him to the front door. “Good night, Russ.”
“Good night. See you,” Rucker said as Crane opened the door and stepped into the quiet darkness. Rucker closed the door and chained it. He went across the living room, with its ancient mahogany furniture, to the staircase. He slowly ascended it. He smiled, remembering how he used to race up it when he was growing up in the old house. He reached the top of the stairs. He stood in the blue moonglow beaming through a stained-glass window in the hallway. The windows’ snowy lace curtains reminded him of his
mother. He remembered following in her crisply starched, fragrant wake as a little kid. He sniffed the air for a scent of his father’s pipe that had lingered for two decades in the hallway. He felt a sense of excruciating loss, and a pang of loneliness, as he moved down the hallway to his bedroom.
He stepped into his bedroom and sat on the side of the wide brass bed. He removed his jacket and hung it on a bedpost. He took off his shoes and lay down across the blue-quilted bed. Finally, he drifted into ragged sleep, tormented by a grinning pimp and the rhinestoned hellions on Sunset Boulevard.
—
Less than a mile away, on Sunset, Lovely Leon sipped a shake beneath a colorful umbrella at an outdoor table. Leon eye-swept the circular counter of the open-air sandwich joint through dark glasses. It was crowded with tourist squares, gays, several hookers, and a few johns comparison-shopping the hookers.
A middle-aged white man in a rumpled seersucker suit ambled toward Leon’s lair near the sidewalk. “Psst!” Leon hissed as the target came abreast. The mark halted on the busy sidewalk and gazed down at the explosion of phony fire on the zircon-encrusted dial of the watch in Leon’s palm.
“Everybody’s business ain’t nobody’s business, Mr. Brother Man. So ease outta traffic and sit down, and look at a bargain you ain’t never gonna see again if you live to be a hundred.”
The mark hesitated. Leon leaned and pulled him down beside him by his coat sleeve. A police car approached slowly. “Now, be cool and act natural, mister, like we salt-and-pepper buddies, ’cause this piece ain’t hot in L.A.”
The cop car cruised by them. The mark took the watch to examine it. He sighed. “It’s a pretty thing, all right, but I’m afraid I can’t afford it.” The mark put it against his wrist and stared at the fireworks ignited by the bright lights. “How much?”
Leon patted the mark’s wrist. “Gimme two bills, and you know jus’ the gold is probably worth that.”
“I’m sure I don’t have more than a hundred or so in cash. Guess I’ll have to let it go.”