The water was painfully cold. Freedom didn’t care. She had lost her way mentally. That bed, this tub, this pain was all there was or would be. LeJohn, the youngest of them, looked down at her. She was curled in a ball. He was smoking a Newport. He pushed the door closed. He listened for the others, but they had gone. He knelt, took up a bar of Irish Spring. “LeJohn. That’s me, LeJohn.” He tried to be gentle when he washed her. The washcloth was rough and stiff. “I live over on Olive. You know, by the 7-Eleven?”
His voice was so far away. Was he even alive? Was she? Was she a ghost?
My name is Freedom. My name is Freedom. My name is Freedom.
“I’m going to own my own record label someday. H.B.T. Hard Baller Tunes. Gangster stuff. You ever go to Culver Ice Rink over on Sepulveda? Used to love that joint.” LeJohn scrubbed her hair. Washed her tiny titties. Her belly, with its pooch of baby fat. Her bruised face. Between her legs. She trembled when the pain hit, but she shoved it down. She was this moment.
And then this moment.
And then this moment.
And then this moment.
The water going down the drain was rusty with blood and stank of vomit and cum, sweat and piss, her own shit.
When LeJohn helped Freedom stand, she didn’t try to cover herself or run or move. “Bring that bitch out here,” Zero yelled.
LeJohn put an arm under hers and helped her walk. He sat her on the sofa next to Zero. SK was cooking a spoon of smack. Freedom had seen her father shoot dope, before he died. Swore she’d never.
“Lil’ Diamond, you done good.” Zero stroked her face. “You took it hard. It don’t never need be like that again.” Freedom felt a soft prick when Zero plunged the needle into her vein. The room melted. She slid from the sofa onto the floor. The carpet pressing against her naked skin was stiff with grime. She didn’t care. Life was soft and pain was distant. She closed her eyes and was gone. No her, no school, no home, no nothing. Let go and she would be gone.
So she did.
CHAPTER 7
In the industrial section of downtown, by day they stitch clothing and stuff toys in crammed, sad rooms filled with wetbacks. At night, there are six or more strip joints selling girls to paw. Above Santa Fe Avenue is a billboard advertising American Apparel. Sweatshop-free clothing it boasts. Has a girl who looks underage, on her hands and knees, ass in the air, smoky look in her dead eyes.
El Rancho was at the head of a dead-end street. Across from it was a shady pool hall bar. I pulled in to park in front of the bar. A Latino cat with prison muscles and tattoos stepped from the bar, pool cue in his hand. He looked at me and shook his head. With the cue he pointed to the Rancho parking lot. No free parking on this street.
For twenty bucks a skinny shaved-headed kid had me park the Benz in a VIP spot near the front door. I guess my thirty-year-old Benz was a luxury car next to the beaters and pickup trucks. The doorman, security guard and cashier were all Latino. I was the only gringo in the place. They charged thirty bucks, and a two-drink minimum for another twenty. They gave me two drink tickets. Red Bull was extra, the cashier with a big grin and gold teeth told me.
The main room was dark, with small two-tops and wrought iron chairs. Lap booths lined the walls. Guys sat while girls rubbed their naked bodies over them. Law said the guy had to keep his hands to himself. Long as he wasn’t touching her with his hands when he came, it wasn’t sex. Down here, those rules weren’t even guidelines. A fat man in a wifebeater had his finger up inside the teenager who was dancing for him. She was moaning. He was moaning, too. She stroked him through his chinos. He caught me staring and gave me a conspiratorial wink. My nostrils flared. I inhaled long and slow. He needed his head stomped into pulp. He needed his balls kicked up into his chest cavity.
“Que pasa, handsome?” She was young and plump, spilling out of her string bikini. “You wanna buy me a drink, handsome?” She purred with fake lust. Her accent was thick, in an East LA way. LA is the second largest Latin city in the Americas. Mexico City is number one . . . just. They could forget that in Beverly Hills, but down here it was clear.
I bought her a ten-dollar Fanta. She crawled onto my lap before I could stop her. “You wanna dance, baby? I make you come hard.”
“No, I’m looking for a girl, black.”
“Fuck her,” she whispered in my ear. “I do whatever you want. Wanna go out? I’ll suck you off, whole thing, whatever you like. You wanna come on my face? Ok. Tits? Ok. I really like you, baby.”
A storm was rushing through my head. I stood fast and she had to scramble to keep from hitting the floor. She was cursing me in Spanish. All I could hear was blood pumping in my ears. I had to get out. Day laborers sat in booths while little girls ground it out on them. Babies. Fuck.
I hit the parking lot fast, door banging against the stucco wall. The security goon started to puff up and move on me. He saw my face and decided to study his shoes. Smart fucking move. From the bar across the street, the tough man with the pool cue watched me smoke the tires leaving. He didn’t smile. Maybe he hoped I’d come to his joint. Maybe he needed to release as bad as I did. Maybe he just wanted to see me go so he could get back to his cerveza before it went flat.
POGUES AND A pint of Jack slowed my pulse. I sat behind a liquor store drinking and breathing. Hipsters came and went, laughing and having a good night. Half the factories were expensive condos now. They got their tough on, living like artists while little girls sold their bodies cheap three blocks over. I’m sure these new residents thought it gave them edge, told their friends they lived in the hood. This town would rip open their pale underbellies and eat them dry if they weren’t white, upper middle-class kids. No one wanted the kind of heat hurting them would bring.
TWO MORE VICODIN, but who was counting, and the world was all soft and swirly. I dropped off the 5 onto Cesar Chavez Avenue. The hooker’s track was next to a graveyard. Seemed fitting, almost funny. But not. The girls working here were more diverse: some black, some olive, one ivory. Easy freeway access must have brought in a more open-minded group of whoremongers.
A small group of sad looking girls stood eyeing the traffic, scanning for cops and johns. The smiles turned on when I slid the Benz to the curb.
“Shit, a fine cowboy like you? Giddy the fuck up.” She was leaning deep into the passenger window and I could smell cheap chemical perfume struggling to override sweat and sex. “For an extra couple of roses, I let you ride bareback.”
“Here.” I passed a picture of Freedom with a hundred folded around it. She took the bill and slipped it into her bra.
“Wanna suck on my titties? No charge.”
“Other than the C-note?”
“Shhhhit, honey, that was a sweet gift.” She dropped the picture. I picked it up off the seat. Held it up for her to see again.
“Missing. Comes from a good home. No way she chose the life.”
“Just like all of us, honey. Some homes are better than others, but not one of us played Hooker Barbie as kids.” She started to laugh and a fleck of blood hit the inside of the windshield. “You best either have me suck your dick, ” she wiped blood off her lips, “or move on.”
“Last question, then I’m off like a prom dress.”
“That’s a tired line, but funny. What’s the question?”
“BMW parked at the Shell, he yours?”
“You gonna hurt him?” I nodded. “Gonna tell him I tol’ you?”
“No.”
“His name is Paulie, from Van Nuys. Thinks he’s straight outta Compton.”
I PARKED AT the gas station and walked over to a tricked out BMW 720. It was a couple years old, but packing expensive rims, lots of extra chrome, leather seats.
“Paulie?”
“You a cop, yo?” He was a skinny white boy with gold in his ear, around his neck, rocking a Rolex. Flashing twenty grand in jewelry while his ladies were sucking cock for forty bucks a pop.
“Not a cop. Want me to rip you out of that car to prove i
t?”
“How the hell would that prove anything, yo? Cops are some brutal motherfuckers.”
Kneeling down, I took the buck knife from my boot. I flipped it open as I stood. One motion and it sunk a half-inch into the top of his biceps. He sputtered, too shocked to form words. Looked like it hurt. I didn’t give a shit. A turban-wearing gas monkey looked over then shook his head and went back to sweeping kitty litter off an oil spill. I pushed the razor-honed blade in a little deeper. The pimp’s right hand was searching the seat. In a flash of steel the blade was against his throat. “Go for that gun. No really, do it. I want you bleeding out. Are we clear on that point?”
He sucked up his pain and let his eyes go dead. “A’ite, motherfucker, what you want? You jackin? I paid Zacarías Araya, full boat. His boys will fuck you up for hunting on their land.”
“Stop talking.” I held up the snapshot of Freedom. “I’m looking for her.”
“Never seen her.”
“Without even looking you know that.”
“Never seen her.” He made a play for his pistol.
I ripped the door open and yanked him out, kicked the 9mm out of his hand. I dragged him to the Benz. Pointing his own gun at him, I told him to get in. He was too stunned to complain. I drove us over the 8th Street Bridge and parked in the industrial area, down by the tracks. The homeless men hiding from the drizzle under the bridge pulled themselves deeper into the shadows as we passed. Gun to head I moved him across the metro rails and onto the bank of the graffiti-splashed cement river.
“This is where you die.” I pushed him onto his knees. “Tell me about her.”
“I don’t—” I fired a shot into his shoulder. He fell forward, started to scream. I pulled him back up onto his knees.
“You hear the sirens? No? Yeah, neither do I.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ok. I have a full clip and all night. Want to talk straight or do I start taking toes?” I pushed the 9mm into his neck.
“Don’t. Please. Don’t.” He was starting to cry, sounding much more San Fernando than Compton. I pulled the trigger, aiming near his leg. Cement chips flew up. He screamed.
“No. No. Please, I want to talk.”
“Then start speaking. Truth. I am fighting hard not to kill you.”
“I didn’t do it. But I seen her. Young-looking black girl. It was her, I’m sure of it. They had her.”
“They?”
“Yeah, the dudes in the car. Car she was in. They, yeah, they um . . .”
“Who?” I pressed the gun harder into his neck to get him to focus.
“I don’t know. Yeah, never seen them, the car, none of it.”
“Focus. Was she working?”
“Hell yes, putting in time, right?”
“Wrong. Not this girl. She’s clean cut. Truth or die.”
“Yes, she was. Mean, she never worked the track. No, not that girl. She . . . right? Never.”
“Fuck it.” I started to pull the trigger.
“No. Ok. They had her. Beat up. Nice girl like her, gorilla pimped? Made me sick. I don’t play that fucking shit. No, not me.”
“Gorilla what?”
“I didn’t, ok. Never. Not the young girl. Hell, no.”
“What set were they from?” Downtown was a patchwork of gang turf, or it had been when I was last down here.
“No set. It’s all MS-13 round here. These dudes, ones that have your girl, not gangsters. From out of town, never seen them.”
“Truth?”
“Truth.” I fired a quick shot taking off his left earlobe. “Fuck. Fuck. I’m fucking deaf.” Blood was running down his face.
“Only in one ear. Now truth.”
“Yeah, OK, yeah. Fucking hurts, OK? It was a nigger named Titan, drives a custom Escalade. It was him. That is all I know. Shoot me. Won’t change it.” I slammed the automatic to the side of his head, driving him to the cement. I kicked him twice. He curled up into a whimpering blood-streaked ball. Fuck him. I broke down his 9mm and pitched it out into the river, left him bleeding on the ground. Truth is, I hoped he would die there.
IT WAS AFTER three a.m. when I got back to the Shamrock. A tired-looking hooker with bad acne scars and a cheap nylon Beyoncé wig came out of the lobby.
“You want to party?” she asked with no enthusiasm.
“No, baby, I’m spent.”
“Heard that. My pussy is wore the fuck out.” She put a Parliament in her mouth. I popped my Zippo and lit her. “Thanks.”
“Not a thing.” I leaned back against the Benz for balance.
“You gots blood on your pants, baby.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. You ever hear of a guy named Titan?”
“Drives an Escalade? Preppy?”
“That’s the guy.”
“Never heard of him.” She let out a phlegm-choked laugh. “No, baby, you wanna steer way the fuck clear of the negro. He a stone killer. Heard he beat one of his girls into a coma with a Gideons Bible. Or maybe that was Johnny Rey Rey in Tallahassee. Some pimp did that, sure enough.”
“Titan sounds like a real bastard. Where do I meet him?” I pulled a fifty out and passed it to her.
“He lives somewhere in the Valley.”
“His girls?”
“Try Sepulveda track. You know his girls cause those stuck up hoes make a strawberry look good. Goddess this, Goddess that bullshit.” She slipped the fifty into a plastic Hello Kitty purse and moved out onto Sunset Boulevard.
CHAPTER 8
Grand Theft Auto was blaring when Freedom drifted back down. In the background of the game Dr. Dre was doing “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang.”
“Damn, look at me, man. I’m a hard motherfucker.” LeJohn was pointing at a built, animated character flexing on the TV.
“Meat it up, bitch, I’m hunting you.” Andre had a soft Southern accent, light skin and his nose was dusted with freckles. He had a ratty beard and unkempt dreads. She knew he was the second to rape her. The heroin took her focus, but not her anger. He would die second. They should die in the order they took her. That seemed fair. She grinned.
Her body hurt. She was curled up on a stained bedspread in a motel room. Outside was a mystery. Any noise from beyond the walls was drowned out by the video game. She felt like she had a bad flu. Her mouth was dry, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. The flesh between her legs was raw and burning. Her thighs felt torn open. The two men playing PlayStation had their backs to her. The door was ten feet away, chain off. She could make it. If she was quiet, she could make it. Without moving, she flexed her legs, pressing blood into them. Coiling, she closed her eyes. Ready.
“Motherfuckers!” Light flooded her eyelids when the door opened. “You rather play a video cat getting rich than get out and earn.”
“Yo, Zero, you told us keep to her,” LeJohn said.
“So I did.” Freedom heard him slap the kid. “And here you are. She awake?”
“Not a goddamn twitch,” Andre said. Freedom kept her eyes still so they wouldn’t see them move.
“You hear about Paulie? That ding-dong works the graveyard? Hell, you ain’t left that box, how would you know shit.”
“The wannabe ghost?” asked LeJohn.
“Who else, bitch?”
“I don’t know.”
“You sure as fuck don’t.”
“You gonna spill or leave us hanging?” Andre smoothed.
“Ding-dong got his ass fucked, rough. Son of a bitch blew a hole in his leg, his body, blew both his ears clean off. Motherfucker’s stone deaf.”
“Tres? He forget to pay rent?”
“Na, he didn’t kick Tres their trib, his head would be on a pole.” Zero laughed. “They say it was some Iron Giant white motherfucker.”
“Pale giant poaching on a Tres preserve? He gonna get dead hard.”
“Fuck Tres. Fuck them. I’ll pimp slap those punks.”
“Kid,” Zero’s voice went ice, “don’t even whisper that crap. They are no fucking joke
. You wanna live? Pay the toll and roll.”
“I’m just, well . . . this Paul Bunyan motherfucker making a play for the track?”
“Dirty Sheila, she say he was flashing a pix of a black girl.”
“Man wants a black piece, just have to hit Fig.”
“Or close his eyes. All hoes is black in the dark,” Andre said, sparking a fat spliff.
“One less ding-dong on the track, nothin’ but a thang.” Zero ended the conversation.
Freedom’s leg spasmed. Traitor. Andre turned a slow pivot, staring at her. “Good morning, beautiful.” A gold tooth flashed in his smile.
ZERO DROPPED ONTO the bed beside her. He rose on an elbow and looked her over. “Looking fine, Lil’ Diamond. How you feeling?”
Freedom tried to speak. A rasping croak came out.
“Kid, get our princess some water.” He snapped his finger. “No, not tap, fucking dog. Fiji, and in a glass.”
The water spread cool down her throat and into her body.
Zero watched, his eyes soft, almost kind.
The other two went back to the PlayStation. The sound slammed in.
“Shut that noise, dumb Negros.” From a knot of bills in his pocket he tossed a fifty at Andre. “Take the kid, buy him some lunch.” He tossed another fifty. “And get your funky ass a cut.”
After they left, he leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry about those punks. I try to raise ’em up correct, but it almost impossible to make a BMW from a pile of pig shit. Maybe I should aim for a Prius.” Refilling her glass, he let his fingers slip across hers. She couldn’t remember the last gentle touch. “You probably hate me. Hell, my own momma hate me. But everything I done was to help you bust the cocoon, turn you into a butterfly.” He let his fingers drift over her cheek. He lay back. She could feel his heat beside her. She felt a wave of relaxation. She held the water glass to the light, watching white flecks dance in the water.
“Jus’ some feel-soft powder. Last thing I need is a needle marked-up Lil’ Diamond.”
She drank it down. She didn’t care.
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