That’s what I wanted.
I wanted to see what kind of creatures rose to my bait.
I got out of the car. A couple of winos sitting in front of the trash dumpster beside the liquor store argued amongst themselves. They stopped for a moment and looked at me, then continued their argument. I leaned against the car and watched Ryan and Sarah make their way down the block. Then I followed. I left plenty of room between us, but kept them in sight.
I’d promised them they’d be safe.
They stopped in front of a brownstone stoop where a huddle of black and white teenagers talked loudly over rap music pounding from an oversized boom box. Words were exchanged and then one of the boys, big, in a baggy hooded sweatshirt and drooping cargo pants, got up from the stoop and confronted Ryan. Ryan stood his ground and held out a flyer. The big black kid took the flyer and crumpled it into a ball and dropped it at Ryan’s feet. Ryan shrugged, then backed away, staying in front of Sarah. They circled around the stoop and the group of teens, stepping out into the street to avoid them. A little further down the block, at the mouth of an alley, they stopped to talk to a young white girl dressed in a ridiculously short skirt and black tube top. All three turned in my direction and Ryan waved to me.
I crossed the street and took my time walking to them. I wanted my sense of the street to sink into my bones, to filter through my consciousness, to give me the cues I needed to work in this jungle. There were some muttered comments and a few bold looks, but that was all I got as I walked down the street, my game face on. As I got closer, the young hooker looked worried. She was a brunette, her hair in a helmet cut that was sadly overdue for a trim. Her makeup was plastered on with a trowel. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen.
Ryan half turned towards me. “Mr. Lovelady? This girl, she’s seen the girl in the flyer.”
“Hey, honey,” I said to the hooker. “What’s your name?”
She tried to look self assured. “Brandi…”
“Is that Brandy with a Y or Brandi with an I?” I said.
That got a little smile. “Brandi with an I.”
“Okay, Brandi with an I, where did you see Luella?” I said.
“Luella?” she said.
“The girl in the flyer. Her name is Luella Pound. Where did you see her?” I said.
“She was, like, around, you know?” Brandi said.
“Out here, on this street? Some other street?”
“They say you’re her friend?” Brandi said.
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m her friend.”
She pointed into the alley. “Let’s talk back here. I don’t want people getting in my business.”
We all went a few steps into the alley, off the main sight line from the street. Ryan turned his back to us to watch the street. I liked that.
“So tell me what you know, Brandi,” I said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
The street girl’s fingers knotted the thin strap of her purse, knotted and unknotted in a rhythmic display. “I saw her around…maybe a month ago? She wasn’t out over here, at least not at first…”
“Where did you see her?” I said.
“In Jumping Java, over on Lyndale? She was getting a coffee. I remember her because she was so blond.”
“Who was she with?”
“This guy,” Brandi said vaguely. “A Mexican guy.”
“Mexican?”
“I think so. He looked Mexican.”
“Was he big, tall? Or short? What else do you remember?”
“He was tall, like you. Lean. He worked out. Short hair. Black T-shirt and black Levis.”
“How were they together?” I said. “Boyfriend, girlfriend?”
Brandi laughed. “Oh, no. No way. She was in the life. He just kept her off the street. She was an inside girl.”
“How do you know that?”
“You just know some things.” Brandi plucked at the waistband of her short skirt. “Out here you see a lot of things.”
“So you saw her at the coffee shop…where else did you see her?”
“Out on the street.”
“Working?”
“No, not really…she was riding around in a limo. She stopped just down the street there and talked to one of the girls on the stroll.”
“She was riding in a limo?”
“Yeah,” Brandi said dreamily. “A long white limo. I’d love to ride in a limo someday.” Her look changed. “But not that limo.”
“Who was she with? Which girl did she talk to?”
“The girl she talked to, she got in that limo. The other girls told her to be careful, she didn’t care.”
“Why would she have to be careful?”
Brandi hugged herself. “Seen that limo before. Heard about it. Sometimes girls go for a ride in it, they don’t come back.”
“The girl that got in the limo with her, did she come back?”
“No,” Brandi said. She was frightened. “That girl never come back.”
“Have you seen that limo since then?”
Brandi nodded.
“Who was in it?”
“I don’t go near that limo,” she said. “We stay away from her.”
“Her? Who else was in the limo?”
“That woman. The Chinese bitch.”
“Chinese bitch?”
“That Miss Emerald,” she said. She didn’t try to hide the fear in her voice. “That bitch.”
“Miss Emerald was down here?” I said.
Fear rushed through Brandi’s face. “You know her? You didn’t say you know her.”
“I don’t know her,” I said. “I know who she is.”
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“Just a minute, Brandi, that’s all I need and we’re out of here. Luella was with Miss Emerald in the limo?”
Brandi looked around, shuffled her feet as though she was deciding whether to run or not. “She was trolling for that bitch.”
“What happens to the girls that go with her?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
She looked back out towards the street, saw the stricken looks on Ryan and Sarah’s face. She snapped at Sarah. “The fuck you looking at? You could be out here too, bitch.”
“Hey…” Ryan said.
I held up one hand. “Okay, Brandi. No problem. Here.” I handed her a twenty and a business card. “You see Luella, or Miss Emerald, or that Mexican guy, you give me a call. I’ll make it worth your while. That’s all you got to do and I keep your name out of it.”
“Keep me out of it?” she said, angry. “Damn right you’ll keep me out of it.”
She stormed away, bumping Sarah hard with her shoulder, waving at passing cars in a manic frenzy.
“Who’s Miss Emerald?” Sarah said.
“Nobody you want to meet,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
We walked down the street. People looked at us curiously. While we waited for the light to change, a familiar man walked around the corner. It was the angry black man from the bus terminal and the liquor store. He stopped dead in his tracks when he recognized me. Then he came on straight at us, anger growing on his face, one hand in his right hip pocket. “You never learn, motherfucker! You gots to learn the hard way, bitch?”
He pulled a short tube from his hip pocket and flicked his wrist down hard. The tube expanded into a metal baton two feet long. It was an ASP collapsible baton, the kind favored by undercover cops and federal agents. He brandished it and advanced on me.
His mistake.
He should have snapped it out when he was ready to strike, but he wanted to enjoy the moment, savor the fear he expected to see. When he didn’t see that, he charged.
Another mistake.
I shoved Ryan into Sarah, moving them out of the way. I stepped forward towards my attacker, into the arc of the striking baton, instead of falling back. I caught his wrist with my left hand and then spun into him, my right arm going around his waist and
pinning him to my hip as I continued to spin, lifting him off his feet and then dumping him on his head in a near perfect hip throw. His head cracked against the pavement with the same sound a melon makes when you drop it on the floor. He was stunned, and blood began to gush from a cut on his head. I plucked the baton from his limp fingers and looked around. No police in sight and the street people were all locked in place, watching.
Then I whipped the baton down as hard as I could on the outside of his thigh.
He convulsed.
I kicked him once, hard, in the ribs, then reached down and took out his wallet and slid the driver’s license from the plastic sleeve. His name was Leroy Thompson.
I tossed Ryan the car keys and pointed across the street. “Go get in the car. Now.”
Ryan gaped at me, but he grabbed Sarah’s arm and they ran across the street into the liquor store parking lot. Several on-lookers gathered.
“What the fuck you doing?” one man said.
“He hit his head,” I said. “Help me carry him over to the stoop.”
“You dumped him on his head.”
“Yeah. I did. You going to help me or not?”
“Fuck no.”
I half carried, half dragged Leroy to the nearest stoop. The teenagers there moved out of my way. The big teen who’d confronted Ryan stood his ground and watched me.
“Man did some kung fu on old boy,” he said.
“Bitch had it coming,” one of the others said.
They gathered around me. Leroy didn’t look so hot. I almost felt bad. I didn’t like being out on the street this long. I patted him down and found no other weapons, but he had a big roll of bills in his front pocket.
“Here,” I said to the big teen, holding out the bills. “Watch my back for a minute and it’s yours.”
He grabbed the roll. “I gots your back, dog.”
Street beatings were common down here, hence the indifferent response. Leroy was out cold and from the look of his eyes when I lifted one lid, he probably had a concussion.
Too bad.
I stuck his wallet in my pocket. I rapped the ASP baton sharply on the pavement, collapsing it to a short six inch length, and tucked it in my hip pocket.
“Thanks, dude,” I said to the big teen. “Next time I see you, you can earn some more of that money.”
“You looking for that girl?” he said.
I gave him a flyer. “Remember me. You know anybody knows this girl, or knows about some white limo and a woman called Miss Emerald, you call me.”
“I hear you, dog,” he said. He held out his hand. “I’m Rufus.”
I shook his hand. “All right, Rufus. You remember me.”
“Ain’t likely to forget you, kung fu motherfucker.”
I laughed as I walked away. I felt good. That’s something Doctor Marks wouldn’t understand. He’d fail to see the enjoyment you earned when you kicked a sorry bastard’s ass.
It’s supposed to feel good.
Across the street, a small knot of homeless winos watched me go to my car. Ryan sat behind the wheel, the car idling, Sarah in the back seat.
“Going someplace?” I said.
He started to get out. “I just wanted to be ready, you know, in case…”
“I like the way you think, Ryan Cleary. You stay put. You got a driver’s license?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you drive.”
I slid into the passenger’s seat and rolled down the window and took a good look around. The winos watched me solemnly, maybe even with a little bit of that old street respect.
I could care less.
“Drive on, young Mr. Cleary,” I said. “Let’s go down Franklin for a little more work before I put you youngsters to bed.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. Sarah leaned forward from the back seat and rested one hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder, a gesture that warmed me.
I changed my mind. “No. We’ve stirred up enough for tonight. Let’s get you two to bed. I’ll get hold of you tomorrow.”
“We can work, Mr. Lovelady,” Ryan said.
Sarah nodded in agreement.
I looked at my wristwatch. It was just before midnight. “You guys will turn into pumpkins. Step on the gas, Ryan. Let’s see if we can get you back before they lock the doors.”
Even without much traffic, it took ten minutes. The hostel door was locked with a sign on it that said no admittance after midnight.
I sighed. “Looks like the slumber party is at Frank’s house.”
“We don’t want to bother you,” Sarah said.
“I’m not going to let you sleep in the park, Sarah. I’ve got plenty of room.” I got out and went around to the driver’s side. “I’ll drive. Sit in back with your sweetie, Ryan.”
“Are you sure it’s okay?” Ryan said. He got into the back seat and slipped an arm around Sarah.
I adjusted the mirror and looked at the two of them cuddled in the back seat. “This is just like a date. And I’m the father.”
“You’re nothing like our fathers, Mr. Lovelady,” Sarah said. “I mean that as a compliment.”
“All right,” I said. “Taken. Let’s go.”
We drove away.
“Who was that man?” Sarah said.
I looked in the mirror. “A bad guy. He might have something to do with Luella.”
“Were you able to find out anything from him?” Ryan said.
“He wasn’t in much shape to talk. And we couldn’t wait till he came around. I don’t want to have to explain all that to the police,” I said. “I’ll see him again, I’m sure.”
I took the long way home, winding past Loring Park and the Walker Art Museum, following the back streets that took us round Lake of the Isles, Lake Calhoun, and finally Lake Harriet. The half-moon shone bright on the still waters of the lake. There were a few brave souls out walking in the moonlight.
“It’s beautiful out here,” Sarah said. “This is a nice part of the city.”
“It is,” I said.
I drove slowly through Linden Hills and turned down 43rd to my house. I parked in the driveway and they followed me into the house. They stood in the living room and looked around. There’s probably not a lot of me in my furnishings, unlike some people’s homes. The furniture is comfortable but nondescript. My only extravagance was an oversized television set and a nice sound system. But maybe it was more than they were used to.
“The spare bedroom is back here,” I said. I led them down the hallway and showed them the bathroom and the bedroom. I took out fresh towels from the closet and laid them on the bed. “You can take a shower if you want, go on to bed. I’m going to stay up for awhile.”
They stood beside each other, linked by a hand. They were an obedient looking pair, and I wondered what had driven them out on the road and away from their families. It wasn’t just the draw of the big city bright lights; something had driven them away. A subtle distinction, but a true one, I thought.
“Thank you, Mr. Lovelady,” Sarah said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Ryan said.
“You can call me Frank,” I said. “All my friends do. You go on to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. You two drink coffee?”
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“We’ll go out for coffee. I don’t keep any in the house.”
“Good night,” they said. Then they went into the bedroom and closed the door.
I felt alone.
The red light on my answering machine blinked steadily. The first call was only street sounds. The second call was the same, but a muffled man’s voice, not the one holding the phone, said, “Is he there?” I recognized the slurred voice on the third call: “I’m going to kill you, motherfucker. Cut your fucking heart out.”
It was Leroy Thompson. I took out his wallet and looked at his driver’s license while he raved for a few moments. Then he hung up mid-rant. I checked the time stamp on the message. He’d called only fifteen minutes before we’d arrived. He’d recovered
from his head plant faster than I thought.
Too bad.
The phone rang. The Caller ID said number blocked. I picked up.
“Hello?”
No street sounds, but I heard breathing.
“Hello?”
They hung up.
I scrolled through the other numbers on the Caller ID. Leroy had called from a pay phone. The other calls were blocked. I wasn’t too worried about them finding me. I paid for an unpublished number, so that kept me out of the reverse directory. But they might have made my license plates, and it was possible to get my address from that.
So some safeguards would be appropriate.
I went into my study and closed the door. Then I unlocked the closet and opened my gun safe and took out a battered Mossberg 590 Combat Shotgun. I fed nine rounds of 00 Buck into the extended magazine, then inserted two slugs and four more rounds of 00 Buck into the side saddle ammo carrier mounted on the receiver. I locked the safe and the closet up, then opened the door and peeked down the hallway. No light from the crack at the bottom of the spare bedroom door. I padded quietly to my bedroom and set the shotgun beside my bed.
The phone rang.
I picked it up.
“Hello, Frank,” Miss Emerald said. There was no mistaking that cool, amused voice. “I understand you were looking for me.”
“Actually I was looking for Luella Pound. You keep coming up.” I paused. “Kind of late, isn’t it?”
“I’m like a star, Frank. I only shine at night.”
“Do you own a white limo?”
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