Broken, Bruised, and Brave

by L. A. Zoe

  He stood nearly as tall as Rhinegold, and even broader all around. Heavy, but, I could tell, not pudgy. Not a creampuff, if you know what I mean.

  He had long black hair combed back, a heavy black beard, and brown skin, so I pegged him as Hispanic although I didn’t hear an accent.

  Rhinegold nudged me with his elbow and whispered, “Greco.”

  “You friends?”

  He ignored me, just called out, “Yo, Greco. How’s it hanging?”

  Greco wore a black leather shirt and black leather pants. A gold chain around his neck held a large circular black onyx and gold amulet. Knee-high shiny black boots. Cowboys would sneer at them as dude boots, but I bet he could kick ass with them even if he wouldn’t want to dirty them by riding a horse.

  A large cape made from black fur hung from his broad shoulders.

  He sniffed, rubbed his nose with a finger. “Come inside, it’s colder than a witch’s twat, your friends too.”

  Rhinegold stepped toward the pimp, and poked me when I hung back.

  “Not the old man,” Greco said. “He smells like the witch’s asshole, and that’d stir up my pets. They got sensitive noses.”

  He pushed the woman toward the inside of the motel. “Tarya, go cook up flapjacks or something.”

  “Flapjacks?”

  “Pancakes. I’m hungry.” He sniffed again, then waved to me and Rhinegold. “Come on.”

  “Just hang back and let me handle this,” Rhinegold told me out of the corner of his mouth so Greco wouldn’t hear.

  We passed through the only entrance, a drive-in area. Greco lifted the wood gate to allow us inside. On the driver’s side, an elderly Indian man in a Cromwell Wizards green sweatshirt and gray wool cap sat inside a small room, looking at us through a plate of scratched bulletproof glass.

  With a small tray below the window, so drivers could pass money to the Indian man, and he could safely give them a room key, he looked like a bank teller at the drive-up window.

  Greco said, “Mr. Patel. His family owns this joint. And I own Mr. Patel.”

  The motel rooms, plus the mid-front entrance, formed a square. That’s why from the outside you couldn’t see the cars parked on the inside.

  A long, black late model Mercedes Benz caught my eye, and Greco noticed. “Like it?” he asked me.

  I nodded.

  “It’s mine, little boy. Even paid for at the finance company, believe it or not. I’m not your typical ghetto hoodlum, all flash no substance.”

  Afraid to speak, I nodded again.

  Most of the other cars appeared to be average sedans, some of them junkers. But also a bright red Acura and a white BMW.

  Greco also noticed my eyes on them, which scared me a little.

  “Customers,” he said. “Iced in overnight. Probably be out soon to scrape the window shields clear and drive back to wifey and the kiddies.”

  He opened the first door past the left corner, and I followed Rhinegold inside.

  Sweat immediately oozed from my forehead. My skin prickled. My back itched in places I could not reach to scratch it.

  Rhinegold threw an intense glance my way, but no way I could stand the heat without removing my coat.

  After I stopped reeling from the intense heat—over ninety degrees for sure—I noticed the terrariums. Covering all the wall space, wood shelves stacked nearly to the ceiling. Terrariums—glassed-in dry, artificial habitats.

  Brown sand. Orange rocks. Yellowish pebbles. Cacti. Jade plants.

  Something else. This man didn’t keep thirty or forty glass containers of rocks just to decorate his room in an inner city short-time motel. A musty odor made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Jittered my nerves.

  I noticed the scorpion first, because it moved. The long tail flipped forward, at the end, a nasty stinger that could kill. In the glass enclosure beside it, a rattlesnake snoozed, curled around a large rock.

  “Like my pets?” Greco asked me, grinning.

  “Dogs can play fetch.”

  Rhinegold punched me in the back.

  Greco said, “That’s an Eastern Diamondback you’re staring at,” he said. “Yes, quite poisonous.”

  “Is this … legal?” I asked.

  “It’s not on the endangered species list,” he said. “As far as I know, anyway. We’ve also got lizards. Both a Gila Monster and a a Mexican Beaded Lizard. They are both endangered, so please don’t kill them, or I’d be forced to turn you in to the appropriate authorities.”

  A big black and orange marked lizard sat motionless on a piece of bare wood.

  I gulped. Sweat prickled and itched over my entire body, like a maddening red rash. I unzipped my winter coat.

  Greco threw his fur cape onto a coatrack and sat in a huge black leather easy chair, leaning back and regarding us with amusement, like a king on his throne.

  “Only seventy-six days until baseball starts,” he told Rhinegold.

  “You’ve got a job for me?” Rhinegold asked.

  “Yeah, take Marla to the Deluxe at five,” he said in a distracted tone of voice, eyes focused on me.

  Finding it easier to look at a poisonous snake than into Greco’s eyes, I found one of the terrariums intensely interesting.

  “Rhinegold, what’re you trying to do, compete with me?” Greco said. He stood up and approached me.

  Before I could move away, he grabbed my winter coat, pulled it entirely open, and stared. Eyes wide and lit. He didn’t even seem to notice the dribble of white flowing out his nose.

  “Magnificent, I must have her. This calls for a drink.” He turned and pulled a wood table in front of his chair. He set out glasses, a bottle of Dewars White Label blended scotch whiskey. Dropped ice cubes into the glasses.

  Rhinegold said, “She’s under my protection, Greco.”

  “Where’s you find her?”

  “In the park last night.”

  “You mean walking the Red Line. Rhinegold, you know you can’t lie to me.” He poured Dewars into the glasses. Picked up one and drank it right down.

  “Look—”

  Greco held up his hand, stared at me. “Want to make a quick hundred? Wear your best dress. Rhinegold will take you to the Deluxe Hotel at five o’clock. Room 514. He’s a regular. Traveling salesman. Known safe. He talks a lot, but is gentle. Just wants a straight lay. Comes in five or ten seconds.”

  “How big’s his dick?” I asked.

  “How tight’s your pussy? Very tight, I bet. Some guys wants big tits. Others want tiny girls. Stick with me, honey child, and you’ll be rich inside a year.”

  Rhinegold said, “She doesn’t want—”

  “Up to her, buddy boy, ain’t it?” Greco said.

  “Thank you for building my self-esteem,” I said. “But I couldn’t do it.”

  “You walk the Red Line. Same thing, only you make money, so you don’t have to rely on guys for food and shelter.”

  Only you.

  “I never. I mean, I—” I didn’t want to admit I was a virgin. Would he want to take it himself or auction it to the highest bidder?

  “She was in the park,” Rhinegold said.

  “I can see she’s new. All my girls were new at one time. So what?”

  “Not for me,” I said, trying not to let my voice show how scared and nervous I felt. I wanted out of there. Away from the oven heat, poisonous creatures, and that human monster with the huge smile. “I’m going to get a real job so I can rent my own place and only sleep with who I want to.”

  Rhinegold felt me sway. “Look, Greco, I’ll pick Marla up at five. We’ve got to go.”

  Greco stared with hooded, unblinking eyes. “So you’re keeping her all for yourself, huh?”

  “I’m not—”

  “I don’t blame you.” He rubbed his nose again, then waved his glass at us. “Go on, you kids get out of here. Maybe we’ll see the sun later today.”

  The heavy blast of cold air make me feel stronger for a moment, before my face numbed and I wishe
d I were back in the heat.

  No, not back in that room, the Reptile House from a zoo.

  I grabbed Rhinegold’s upper arm, and took deep breaths.

  Greco called out, “You ever change your mind, cutie pie, now you know where to find me. I’ll be watching out for you.”

  “Not for me,” I said in a weak voice. I don’t think he heard me.

  “You could make a lot of money from guys like little round asses and tight cunts.”

  Chapter Six

  Ami

  “Greco has a jones for your girlfriend,” Crazy Georgie said as they continued trudging and rolling north on the sidewalk.

  “Huge one,” Rhinegold said. He forced himself to remain calm even though his legs wanted to move a lot faster. Georgie’s lame foot, pushing the shopping cart, and SeeJai’s banged knee slowed the three of them to what felt to him like a lazy turtle’s pace.

  Georgie muttered to himself. “That’s not so good.”

  “Tell me about it,” Rhinegold said.

  The sun rose high enough to cast a dull cold white light through the thick layer of winter clouds. Not a cheerful day, but for winter, not bad. Not dark enough to predict another storm.

  A few cars drove by, engines whining in low gear. At only a few degrees above zero, rock salt couldn’t melt the ice, but it provided friction for tire treads.

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” SeeJai said to set the record straight.

  “She’s just under my protection,” Rhinegold told Georgie.

  Georgie winked and nodded. “Okay, I see. I see.”

  Rhinegold sighed. Nobody understood. Least of all, himself.

  Georgie went on. “A big-time pimp like that, with a stable of hoes he can have anytime he wants, what’s he care about SeeJai for?”

  “Because he’s horniest for the ones he hasn’t nailed yet, just like every low-down man,” SeeJai said.

  Georgie cackled, and said to Rhinegold. “Now I see why she’s not your girlfriend.”

  “Shut up, Georgie,” Rhinegold said. “You all right, SeeJai?”

  “Better. I almost fainted in there.”

  “My advice: stay away from Greco even if you’re with me.”

  “You work for that asshole?” SeeJai asked Rhinegold. “I thought you protected innocent people.”

  “His women aren’t exactly innocent, I guess, but they don’t deserve to be robbed, or beaten, or raped. So I don’t mind taking his money to stop that.”

  As they passed the BP gas station, a woman in blue denim shouted to a tow truck driver drinking a cup of something steaming hot.

  The air felt half-way fresh, lighter than usual. Almost fresh, though not sweet smelling. Maybe because of almost no car traffic since yesterday’s rush hour. Or the ice storm scrubbed pollutant particles out of suspension in the atmosphere.

  “I still don’t understand,” SeeJai said to Rhinegold. “What you do for that horrible man.”

  “He’s too arrogant to drive the women anywhere. Probably doesn’t even have a license, maybe suspended for too many DUIs. Dewars on the rocks this early isn’t exactly social drinking.”

  “He’s on cocaine too, isn’t he? With that nose running a marathon.”

  “And he doesn’t let the women have cars—afraid they might just start driving and not stop until they’re in Las Vegas or L.A. So they walk or take a bus. They can be hassled or mugged like any women.”

  “What about the customers?”

  “I check them out if they’re new. They don’t want me in their rooms while they’re doing her, of course, but I let them know if they try any rough stuff, they won’t get away with it. I’m right down the hall, someplace inconspicuous, and if she doesn’t walk out of the room healthy, they’ll get hurt twice as bad.”

  “Never understood men like that,” Georgie said. “Just like guys who drink to pick a fight. I like mellow lays and mellow drunks.”

  “The other thing,” Rhinegold said, “is when we’re inside the hotel I’m camouflage for the lady.”

  “Camouflage?” SeeJai said.

  “You think a fancy place like The Deluxe Hotel wants a reputation as a whore house? Greco’s women, they don’t blend in like they’re upper crust tourists, you know? They’re street. Hood. By themselves they’re easy to spot. But if they’re with a guy, the other guests just assume we’re tasteless nouveau riche. She’s a shameless hussy, but they don’t blame the hotel for letting her inside.”

  “And the hotel doesn’t know?”

  “I’m sure the employees figure it out, because they see me a lot, and with different women all wearing too much makeup. One desk clerk always nods at me, and one night shift bellhop always smirks. But they can always say they didn’t know, because I’m there, apparently her boyfriend.”

  “And they don’t want to stop you, do they?” George said. “They just want to cover their fat butts. Because if they make trouble for regular customers who just want to get laid, those guys will take their business to different hotels.”

  “So it’s all about hypocrisy and money,” Rhinegold said. “That’s society today. Hypocrisy and money is in charge.”

  “Always has been,” Georgie muttered.

  As they continued, Rhinegold thought about Greco and SeeJai. Although a pimp, Greco didn’t act like he’d watched too many movies. The cops took his money to ignore his stable while they hung out on street corners, wearing their spandex. But didn’t cover up murders or serious assaults. Or kidnapping or turning out girls under eighteen years old.

  Of course he supplied the women with drugs—because they wanted and demanded them. But they could get drugs almost anywhere.

  They needed a pimp to keep them safe from the police. Only Greco’s stable could bring guys to The Mahogany. Other motels called the police. The cops picked up freelancers working the sidewalks. Just like they harassed anyone walking the Red Line.

  Farther north, Ami provided similar services to working girls.

  The only way for a prostitute to avoid the two pimps was to get off the streets. Work for one of higher class escort services or massage parlors. Or use the Internet to acquire a group of regulars she could count on for enough outcalls to keep herself fed.

  Some answered phone sex lines or broadcast themselves on webcams.

  But most of the street hoes weren’t smart or organized enough. They preferred to live from night to night. Smoking crack did that to you.

  A group of young Skullz all wearing green shirts and backward baseball caps approached, heading down the sidewalk their way. Their voices loud and crackling in the air.

  Rhinegold’s shoulders tensed, he grabbed his K-Bar knife, and put his don’t-fuck-with-me face on, and pretended not to notice them, while watching every move.

  Boys probably no older than ten or eleven. Gangstas-in-training. Just the kind of junior scumbags to pull out a gun and shoot for no reason except to pass an initiation.

  Just the kind of kids to make trouble because, at their age, they could get away with it.

  Because, as an adult white man, Rhinegold could be jailed for assaulting a minor, even in self-defense.

  And they could never be forced to pay for the damage they did.

  They passed without incident, and Rhinegold relaxed. A little.

  Maybe they were delivering a shipment of crack. The lawyers wouldn’t let the police stop and question them so long as they seemed to be doing nothing wrong.

  “Actually, SeeJai, I was talking about your knee,” Rhinegold said. “How’s it feel?”

  She grimaced. “Could be worse, but it could be better too.”

  “You need to sit down and put some ice on it.”

  “Like, where’ll I get ice?”

  Rhinegold waved his arm. “The whole city’s covered in it. Or just use one of Georgie’s shirts.”

  “Use one of my undy pants,” Georgie said. “Make an old man feel young again.”

  Rhinegold tried to figure SeeJai out. Last night, she practically
forced her body on him, and got angry when he rejected it. But today she demonstrated guts, standing up to Greco just like she … had balls.

  Took some nerve, and she remained polite and respectful. A big deal to tough guys like Greco. They demanded respect, even while doing everything they could not to earn it. Fear, they earned. Fear created a show of false respect.

  He liked her again, and he didn’t expect that. Not after she took off her shirt, then walked out on him when he wouldn’t lie with her.

  “You have to wash your clothes,” SeeJai said to Georgie.

  “Laundromat next block,” Georgie said. “And that reminds me—it’s close to Rosie’s Diner. You hungry, SeeJai? That is—” He looked over at Rhinegold. “If somebody with a protection gig this evening has enough cash on them.”

  “You know Greco didn’t give me an advance,” Rhinegold said. “But I’ve got a little money.”

  SeeJai said, “My mother—”

  “Doesn’t want you to go hungry.”

  In the laundromat, they had to break up the chunks of ice before throwing Georgie’s clothes into a washer. He had just enough for two loads. Georgie left his shopping cart in the laundromat only because he knew Rosie wouldn’t allow it inside her diner, but he carried several packages wrapped in garbage bags.

  A holdover from the long ago days when “greasy spoons” outnumbered McDonald’s, Rosie’s Diner served hot food twenty-four hours a day.

  Rhinegold didn’t like Rosie’s, and normally avoided it. Something about the smell of grease burned during the peak of Beatlemania, mildewy onions, and the stain on the wood floor where rival a bootlegger once smashed Rosie’s inventory of kegs of home-brewed beer.

  A tall, heavy-set fry cook with a spattered apron and a beach ball-sized afro stared at a hamburger face down on the grill, crackling and spattering.

  They took seats around a plastic table with chipped edges. From the kitchen, a huge clatter of silverware falling to the floor. The fry cook didn’t even blink.

  SeeJai looked around.

  “The menu’s on the wall,” Rhinegold said, jabbing his thumb at the long wood board hanging behind the big range. Each menu item painted in red, all of them faded, looking like something out of a 1940s B movie. Small white squares of paper contained the prices, though many were blank.