The Feeder

by Mandy White

  “It’s like they told him or something. He must know someone on the police force…”

  He was someone on the police force.

  Diamond Vinnie was a pimp.

  I was willing to bet he was also a cop.

  I had almost enough information. I knew who. I just needed to figure out where.

  It was time to pay Diamond Douchebag a visit and then take my sister home.

  ~ Chapter 6 ~

  Vigil at the Cobalt

  Inside Camille’s bag I found some makeup, a hairbrush and a wallet. In the wallet was about five hundred dollars in cash and a California driver’s license – obviously fake. It had Camille’s picture but it said she was a twenty-five-year-old named Marissa Gonzales with a Los Angeles address.

  There were a few magazines – a recent copy of Vogue and a couple of tabloids. In a side pocket of the bag was another syringe, still packaged. A good junkie is always prepared.

  In the other side pocket of the bag I found a key attached to a blue plastic tag similar to the red one from the White Surf motel, which I still had in my pocket. Dufferin Hotel, it said. Room 241.

  It was a good place to start.

  I gathered up the few possessions Camille had in the room and called a cab to take me downtown.

  She didn’t have much with her, just the bag, the drugs and the journal. No clothes other than the soggy jeans and t-shirt in the bathroom, no suitcase, no jacket. I got the impression she had fled on the spur of the moment, taking only her bag.

  The Dufferin was just a few blocks from the famous intersection of Hollywood and Vine.

  I stood outside the drab cement building for a moment, going over possible scenarios in my head and planning how I would react to each. I knew I couldn’t plan ahead for everything; I had learned long ago to trust my instinct.

  Odds were, if Camille was in that room, Vinnie was in there with her.

  The desk clerk didn’t bother to look up when I walked through the small, musty smelling lobby of the Dufferin. I boarded the elevator and pressed the button for the second floor. As the elevator jerked to life, I studied the blue plastic key tag thoughtfully. Room 241.

  Was this Camille’s home? Or was it just a place where she and other prostitutes brought their clients? Perhaps it was just a room key she’d forgotten to return. Maybe the room was now vacant or occupied by someone else. I was about to find out.

  I paused outside the door of room 241.

  Here we go again.

  I slipped the key into the lock.

  Before I could open the door, someone grabbed it from the other side and yanked it open.

  Camille stood in the open door. Her eyes widened in shock when she saw me. She whipped her head around, frantically looking behind her.

  “Fuck!” she whispered, “you can’t be here! I told you I didn’t want you involved in this. He’s in the bathroom. You gotta go. NOW! Before he kills both of us! Go! Go home!” She shoved me backward out of the room and quietly closed the door in my face.

  “I’ll be back,” I whispered at the door, feeling like some absurd Schwarzenegger wanna-be. I might have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious.

  I would go. For now.

  I needed time to rethink my strategy. I required a place in which to do that, and I intended to stay as close to Camille as possible. On the elevator ride back down to the lobby, I entertained several possible strategies.

  First, I would need a place to stay.

  * * *

  Like the Dufferin, the Cobalt hotel fit the stereotype of any low-budget hotel in any typical city. I chuckled at the name of the place. Vancouver also had a Cobalt hotel, which had once housed a popular albeit seedy strip joint. I chose that hotel in particular because of its location; it stood back-to-back with the Dufferin with only a narrow alley between the two buildings.

  The lobby of the Hollywood Cobalt was a small alcove just inside the front doors. It was empty except for a worn pair of armchairs with a small round table in between. The front desk was nothing more than a tiny room with a barred window, behind which a stocky balding man in a sweat-stained wifebeater sat playing a riveting game of computer solitaire.

  I registered for a room using the driver’s license from Camille’s purse and requested a room facing the alley.

  “I’m a very light sleeper,” I explained, “I can’t sleep if I’m overlooking the street because the traffic makes way too much noise. And no higher than second floor, please? I’m afraid of heights.”

  The desk clerk rolled his eyes at me and sighed as if I were some spoiled Hollywood celebrity making outrageous demands at a five star hotel. I’d committed the unforgivable sin of interrupting his solitaire game to make him do his job.

  I slid the completed registration card through the slot under the barred window, along with enough money for two nights and an additional twenty-dollar tip.

  “Keep the change,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him.

  The clerk’s demeanor brightened immediately at the sight of the money and he even smiled a tobacco-stained grin back at me.

  “No problem! How’s second floor facing the alley? That be okay for y’all?”

  “Got a room somewhere in the middle?” I gave him a suggestive wink.

  “Shore thang honey!”

  “Beautiful,” I purred, blowing him a kiss as I took the key.

  I didn’t know if I was going to need a room for two nights, but I didn’t want to chance being disturbed by a chambermaid in the morning. I hoped to get my hands on Camille and get her out of there by the next day but I had no idea how much trouble she was in. Her boyfriend sounded dangerous.

  It was a simple dark and dingy room with a small bathroom and stained brown carpet on the floor. A lone double bed dominated the room, flanked by two nightstands, each with a lamp bolted to it. The television set was bolted to the top of the dresser. I guessed the type of guests who frequented such a fine establishment as the Cobalt had a tendency to steal anything that wasn’t literally nailed down.

  Even the tacky landscape painting that decorated the space above the bed was nailed to the wall, though I couldn’t imagine who would bother to steal such a thing. A cockroach skittered behind the painting as I admired the gaudy masterpiece.

  Well, hello there, Diamond Vinnie! I thought.

  I pulled the curtain back to check out my view and came face to face with a row of ugly iron bars.

  How lovely.

  I could afford to stay anywhere I wanted in Los Angeles, yet here I was in a roach-infested prison cell, apparently decorated by meth heads.

  That was fine with me, since I wasn’t there on vacation. I’d booked the room strictly for the view. An avid hunter, I was accustomed to enduring a little discomfort for the sake of getting a good shot at my prey. Being in this shitty hotel was no different from sitting up to my ass in frigid water behind a duck blind.

  As I’d requested, my window faced the alley, directly across from the Dufferin. I counted the second-floor windows, trying to zero in on Camille’s room. I was pretty sure I had her room picked out. It wasn’t quite across from mine but close enough that I would have had a clear view into the room if the blinds hadn’t been closed. I could make out the occasional shadow of an occupant moving around the room.

  I noted that the fire escape was directly outside the window I believed was Camille’s. I, too, had a fire escape nearby and the bars were hinged so they could be opened from the inside in case of fire.

  Being a slightly more prestigious establishment than the ritzy Cobalt, the Dufferin did not have bars on the windows of the rooms. Also noted.

  I left my curtain open so I could keep an eye on what was going on across the street.

  I pulled the nubby floral bedspread off the bed and shook it out, grimacing at the small cloud of dust, probably made up of old skin cells. I inspected the bedspread and blanket, looking for foreign objects and gingerly patted down the pillows and mattress. I didn’t know if I woul
d be doing any sleeping here but it didn’t hurt to take precautions. I’d heard about a woman who had gotten stabbed through the cheek by a used needle after laying her head on a pillow in a room very much like this one. The chambermaid had missed it when (or if) she changed the pillowcases.

  I tossed the bedspread back on the bed, still reluctant to touch the filthy thing. Hotel bedspreads and blankets were seldom changed unless they looked dirty, like if someone puked, pissed or did some other visibly disgusting thing on them. I couldn’t get that documentary out of my head – the one where they used an ultraviolet light to reveal semen on bedspreads in ‘clean’ hotel rooms.

  I knew all sorts of interesting tidbits (such as the syringe-in-the-pillow story) after two semesters of Criminology at UFV. My study of criminal behavior was based solely on personal curiosity rather than a desire to follow that particular career path.

  My father had always hoped I would follow in his footsteps by joining the military but I wasn’t military material. A career in law enforcement would have been equally respectable in his eyes but I had let him down again by switching majors midstream and pursuing a career in computer technology. My father had tried to hide his disappointment that I had chosen the life of a geek over that of a feared and respected police officer. He was the tough-as-nails manly man of the family. Filling his shoes was an impossibility for someone such as myself.

  I pulled the room’s only chair up to the window and watched the Dufferin’s second floor for a while, thinking. I needed to know without a doubt which room belonged to Camille.

  I wished I was back home in Canada, where I had access to an arsenal of rifles equipped with high-powered scopes. I hunted on a regular basis and had inherited my father’s gun collection after his death.

  With our mother also deceased, Camille and I were the sole beneficiaries of the estate. My father had left us the house and all of his possessions along with a substantial amount of money, with instructions that I control the purse strings. Camille hadn’t minded because she knew she needed only to ask and I would give her whatever she wanted. Camille knew she always had a home to come to if she ever felt like settling down and hanging out with someone as boring as me, her sensible if somewhat surly twin.

  Camille loved me more than she loved herself, but she would never be happy with the type of quiet life I led. She was forever chasing the elusive fairy tale: super stardom and the perfect soul mate. She was one of those women who couldn’t stand to be alone – always hanging on the arm of some man, and nearly all of them had been abusive. More than once I had come to her rescue, threatening the life of some bastard for putting his hands on her. I’d felt like slapping the shit out of her a few times myself after jeopardizing my firearms license by threatening some creep at gunpoint, only to watch her go running back to him a few days later. I knew how the cycle of abuse worked but it didn’t make it any less frustrating.

  The segment my Criminology class had done on domestic violence was an immense help to me when it came to understanding what was going on in Camille’s head. The purpose of the class was to prepare law enforcement officers for situations they encounter on the job. Domestic violence was one of those situations.

  The pattern of battered woman syndrome was a predictable one. To paraphrase the textbook:

  Victims of domestic abuse often return to their abusers of their own free will, as if nothing has happened. Violence is typically followed by a ‘honeymoon phase’, during which the man is kind and attentive; treating her the way a normal man should. Abused women learn to live for this honeymoon phase. It’s as if the promise of romance and gifts makes it worth the abuse they must endure beforehand or at the very least, it gives them the strength to endure it.

  It was likely Camille was now in the honeymoon phase, which meant she should be temporarily out of danger. I intended to stay nearby so I could defend her if necessary and get her out of there as soon as I had the chance.

  In the meantime, I needed to get something to eat.

  I tucked my hair under the collar of my jacket before stepping out onto the neon-lit streets. Looking for a place to eat, I walked past an endless row of barred windows, some of them pawn shops with flickering neon OPEN signs behind them.

  I found an all-you-can-eat sushi place and paid the ten dollars to stuff my face. Like many West Coast natives, sushi was as much a regular part of my diet as beef was to a cowboy.

  With my belly full of sushi, I felt strong and clear-minded again. A lot had happened in the few hours since I landed in LA and I still had a challenge ahead of me.

  Camille wasn’t safe yet but I knew where she was and that she was at least somewhat there of her own free will. She had agreed to go home with me until the bastard had come and taken her but I still had my doubts as to how much resistance she had given him.

  Having flown to Los Angeles on the spur of the moment, I was now in a strange city for an indefinite length of time with no personal effects. I didn’t even have a toothbrush. I dropped into a 7-11 store to pick up a few necessities. After selecting a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and a cheap hairbrush, I grabbed a couple of bags of Doritos and three cans of Red Bull and then made my way to the counter. On impulse I also bought a pair of sunglasses and a black baseball cap with the OCC logo on it. Incognito was the way to go if I didn’t want anyone mistaking me for Camille.

  On the way back to the hotel I paused in front of one of the pawn shops to look at the items displayed in the window. One item in particular caught my eye, reminding me of something I was missing – something I might need. I knew I would feel much more comfortable if I had it.

  Back at the room, I hurried to the window to check on Camille’s room. I had purchased a pair of binoculars from the pawn shop, along with the other item. I was now able to zoom right in on the window over the fire escape.

  The bottom half of the blind was open and a figure sat on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette and flicking the ash out the window. It was a woman, clad only in panties and a T-shirt. I’d recognize that skinny ass anywhere. It was Camille.

  I sat in the chair and rested my elbows on the windowsill to steady the binoculars. I saw the silhouette of another person moving around the room, as if carrying on a conversation with Camille. From what I could see, things didn’t look heated and both parties appeared to be relaxed. Camille left the windowsill for a moment. I continued to watch, hoping for a glimpse of her companion’s face. So far I’d only seen him from the waist down, and he looked like an average sized dude. I wondered if he was in fact a cop or if she’d just been paranoid.

  No, I corrected myself, she had been taken away by the police, according to the desk clerk at the White Surf. There was a cop involved somehow. I’d have to tread carefully if I was going to get Cammie away from him and safely back across the Canadian border.

  I saw movement near the window and steadied the binoculars once more. Camille’s head popped out the window and stared across the alley at my hotel. I examined her face for evidence of fresh bruises but she looked about the same as she had back at the White Surf. She looked down at the alley below, then raised her face and looked directly into my eyes through the binoculars.

  Did she see me? Could she feel me?

  Like most twins, Camille and I had an almost psychic bond. When we were younger we could always tell when one was feeling sad and we had a tendency to finish each other’s sentences. I kept the binoculars locked on her gaze and tried to project my thoughts to her.

  I’m here, Cammie. Do you feel me? Feel me, please! I’m going to get you out of there!

  If Camille knew I was there, she didn’t let on. She simply looked down once more and then pulled her head back into the room. The Venetian blind dropped closed behind her.

  I retreated from my window post and sat on the edge of the disgusting hotel bed while I admired my final purchase: a hunting knife with a nine-inch blade. It was lighter and slimmer than the one I had at home. Mine was the military model, almost an exact d
uplicate of the one Rambo carried in First Blood.

  I had several knives but the one I had gotten for Christmas from my father was my favorite. I had carried it with me on more hunting trips than I could count. The blade had sliced through countless deer, moose, elk and bear carcasses. My dad was as proud as a father could be at how skilled I became with it. My knife was an extension of my hand, when I wasn’t holding a firearm.

  I slid my new acquisition in and out of the sheath a few times, appreciating its weight and how comfortable it felt to hold.

  I no longer felt empty-handed.

  I watched Camille’s room for the rest of the night until the lights went out, then crawled into the loathsome hotel bed to catch a few hours of sleep.

  When I woke, Cammie’s blinds were still closed so I had no way of knowing whether she was still in the room or whether she was alone. I needed to know what the asshole looked like so I could catch him leaving the hotel and then get Cammie the hell out of there. I still wasn’t quite sure how I was going to accomplish that, other than to keep trying to catch them with the blinds up.

  I found a decent looking café across the street from the Dufferin, where I could watch the front doors of the hotel while I ate breakfast.

  I scanned the daily edition of the LA Times while I ate. I often read when I had a problem to solve. Focusing on something inane like a newspaper article relaxed my mind and allowed me to think.

  LA was a brutal city. Some guy shot someone else in a road-rage incident. This gang was killing that gang. A boatload of heroin was seized off the coast. A serial killer called The Feeder was slaughtering prostitutes.

  That was interesting.

  I stopped to read the brief blurb about Hollywood’s latest hooker-killer. The guy sounded like one sick fuck. Apparently he was a slasher type who liked to mutilate his victims but the article declined to mention why they called him The Feeder.

  It reinforced how urgent it was to get Camille back to Canada where she would be safe. In the perilous world of prostitution, it was only a matter of time before she ran into someone like this Feeder person. If we were at home I would at least have the firepower to protect her.