Perversion

by T. M. Frazier

  Marci shakes her head. “No, Bell. You got there just in time.” She plants a kiss on his cheek. “Hear the boys out, babe. Their plan is good. Solid. You should be proud.”

  “I really thought you’d be against all this,” Belly says again. The way they talk to one another makes me feel like they’re the only two people in the room, and the three of us are intruding.

  Marci sighs. “I am very much against young girls being forced to sell themselves against their will. However, I’m a feminist at heart. That means I’m all for women making their own decision to make money in any way they choose. If they want to sell their pussies, it’s their right. Besides, we are talking about prostitution, not trafficking. These girls will get paid. Get regular health checks.”

  “We’ve already got a doc on the reservation lined up,” I add.

  Belly turns to me and nods, giving me the go ahead to continue.

  I lean my elbows onto the table and fold my hands. “As Sandy said, I already talked to the chief. He’s been looking to try and pull in some younger clientele. The blue hairs are great and all, but they’re careful. Too careful. They’re on fixed incomes. They budget. When they’ve lost their allotted amount, they’re out. Younger men, on the other hand, have more disposable income. They’re reckless.”

  I glance up to make sure Belly’s still with me. He is.

  “A… whore house,” I say, pausing when Belly growls. I correct myself and start again. “A brothel, gentleman’s club, or whatever you want to call it, will be another reason to bring in a younger crowd. A different breed of gambler. It will be a place to send them when they need a break from gambling without having them leave the reservation because offering them a free buffet ain’t gonna cut it. The chief will cover costs for anyone he sends by minus his cut. With those types of clients, plus regulars looking for higher quality than what’s out there on the streets, it’s a win-win.”

  Belly looks to Marci who smiles at me proudly from across the table.

  Haze chimes in. “There’s a building out there they used to run swamp tours from before the land dried up. It’s attached to the main building by a covered walkway. We’ll fix it up. We’ll manage the place, and the chief gets ten percent.”

  Belly still looks skeptical. “The girls will get an hourly rate for the time they’re there, plus fifty percent of the fee from the Johns and all tips, including stage money. It’s a cash only business with security and cameras everywhere, which isn’t hard since we already run security for the casino. All we have to do is increase staff and bring in a few more of our guys. Lan, Dicks, and Ruff-Ruff are already on board.”

  “And the girls?” Belly asks. “What happens when some sick fuck asks them to do something they don’t want to do?”

  I shrug. “They don’t do shit they don’t want to do. They can refuse anyone at any time, and they can leave whenever they want and work whatever hours they choose over and above what’s on the schedule,” I assure him. "The girls who want to stick around for longer than a shift will have their own rooms. Catering will be available around the clock. Booze, weed, and most uppers permitted. Painkillers of any kind, and H are not allowed to be carried or done on the premises. We want the girls to party and have fun, not zone out of life, or OD.”

  Belly takes a deep breath and considers my answer. “No free fucks for you guys. I don’t want them thinkin’ they’re obligated to suck Bedlam dick just because they work for us.”

  “Mutually consensual, paid dick-sucking only,” Sandy swears, holding up his right hand with his other over his heart.

  Belly rolls his eyes. “Who’s running this shit-show?”

  “Me,” Haze answers.

  “Madam Haze at your service,” Sandy says, with a bow of the head and a dramatic hand roll.

  “No,” Belly says. I think for a moment that we’ve lost our argument, but he continues. “Haze can manage the business side of things, but I’ll only agree to this if Marci runs the show. The day to day. She picks the girls. She makes sure they get what they need.”

  Marci nods in agreement. No hesitation. “I’m in.”

  Haze and Sandy celebrate by giving each other an across-the-table bro-hug. Marci ducks to avoid being caught in the middle. She kisses Belly on the lips.

  It’s just me and Belly left as the rest of the table gets up and shuffles out of the room. He points to me.

  “I’m backing you because I believe in you. Always have.” He leans in close and places a hand on my shoulder, just like he did on the very first day I arrived. “One day, when I’m no longer around, Bedlam will be in your hands, Grim. You’re going to have to lead those boys and all our men, by example. You’re going to be the one who makes sure this ship of ours don’t sink when I’m gone.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You’re not going anywhere,” I tell him, hating that he’s even mentioning a world without him in it. “Docs tell you something new you ain’t telling me?”

  He shakes his head. “I won’t be gone soon, but I will be someday. That’s all I’m saying.” Belly stands from the table. “It’s always been you, son.” He raises his chin. “Don’t fuck it up. Oh, and schedule a sit-down with Marco and Margaret to give ‘em a heads up. Lord knows we don’t need any more bloodshed in this town. I don’t wanna lose any more soldiers.” His eyes grow sad. He looks to Digger’s empty chair. “Or anymore sons.”

  “You want me to talk to them about extending the ceasefire while we’re at it?” I ask.

  Belly shakes his head. “We’ve got a month. We’ll handle it then. No need to push buttons on something that don’t need to be pushed just yet.” Belly takes another swig of his whiskey, then sets the glass down. He’s about to leave the room when he turns back to me. “You wanna tell me something that you ain’t telling nobody else? You got that look in your eyes again. This about Emma Jean?”

  “For once, I wish you didn’t know me so well,” I say with a chuckle. I scratch my jaw.

  “You find something out about her finally?” Belly asks with hope in his voice.

  “I found her,” I say, “I just didn’t know it at the time.”

  “Where was she?”

  I shake my head, still unable to believe it myself. “In my fucking bedroom.”

  Fourteen

  I overhear Tristan on the other side of the door. Whoever he’s talking to mentions Gabby’s name. It won’t be long until he finds out she’s Marco’s sister, and that I’m the enemy.

  For the second time in my existence, I feel guilty. Not even the knowledge that I was finally able to give his picture back can ease the soul-crushing, stomach-twisting guilt made worse by the fact that I can still smell Grim. Feel him over me.

  I shiver.

  The connection between us suddenly makes sense when I realize who he is. All these years, he’s been right here in Lacking. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything. But I can’t. If he remembers me at all, only two outcomes are possible. He’ll either try to protect me from Marco, and, by doing so, break the truce that’s allowed this town peace for the first time in years, causing a war, or he will kill me.

  And, a war would start anyway.

  Which is why I’ve come to a decision. It might be a stupid one, or I should say, another stupid one, but it’s the only option that won’t end with a whole town blood bath.

  I know where I have to go, and what I have to do.

  Splashes of graffiti cover the exterior of every building lining the main road through town. Lacking’s equivalent of archaic caveman drawings, all competing to be noticed.

  Most are signs from different gangs, marking their territories. A Bedlam bleeding black rose. A yellow bandana tied around the face of a sugar-skull for Los Muertos. A tattered pair of angel wings representing the Immortals MC.

  Between the signs, there’s a lot of So and So wuz here’s and the word redrum appears repeatedly. As if murder spelled backwards somehow makes it more threatening.

  You won’t find an art
museum in Lacking, but you will find art created by some ridiculously talented, if not misguided, artists. A depiction of Jesus hanging from the cross. A cartoonish big breasted woman with tiny plastic toy soldiers hanging from her nipples. A gun in a man’s open mouth with a white flag that reads BOOM sticking out of the back of his head.

  And then, there are the hundreds of lifelike murals of fallen gang members, usually with RIP written on it somewhere along with a date of birth and date of death.

  Every drop of spray paint in this town holds some sort of meaning. A message.

  A warning.

  I tear my eyes from the paint on the walls and concentrate on the task at hand. The graffiti warnings all around me act as the wind at my back, propelling me forward, faster and faster, until I’m practically running toward the bus station.

  The money for two one-way tickets out of Lacking crunch in my pocket with each step. It sounds like freedom.

  I come to a stop as the bus station appears at the end of the road and take a deep breath. Escaping Lacking is risky, but so is staying. With each passing day, it only gets more dangerous, as does Marco.

  One of the larger murals of a fallen gang member comes into view. It takes up the entire side of the bus station. The Los Muertos yellow bandana is tied around the man’s neck, I don’t bother looking at the rest. I take it as a sign to keep moving, and so I do.

  I enter the bus station and purchase the tickets quietly and quickly using two fake IDs I’d acquired after waiting for the just the right ones to come along. Ones with photos who could, at a quick glance, pass for me and Gabby.

  Gabby’s was the easier of the two. Long dark hair, big brown eyes. Of course, Gabby was stunning. There was no one who could match her, but Giana Villanueva was a close second. Mine? Not as easy. It’s half the reason I’ve straightened and darkened my hair. Now, I at least somewhat resemble Kelly Flowers, organ donor.

  Peering out the glass door of the station, I check the sidewalks to make sure there’s no one lingering outside who might recognize me. It’s clear. I leave just as quietly as I came, without so much as causing the bell above the door to ring.

  I’m walking away, back in the direction I came, but I stop. Feeling the sudden need to see the rest of the mural. I turn and look over my shoulder. The rest of my body follows.

  RIP Slinky. 10/31/90-11/2/15.

  Slinky? I crane my neck, and my gaze lands on his face. I knew him. Slinky’s real name was Carlos. I know that because that’s how he introduced himself. “They call me Slinky, but the wifey calls me Carlos.” I spoke to him several times but never for long. He was one of the more pleasant of Marco’s soldiers. A few times, he brought Gabby and me several trays of chicken and rice his wife had cooked after realizing our food situation was more of a famine than a situation. Carlos disappeared shortly after, and I never saw him again. I found out later he died in a shooting between Los Muertos and Bedlam.

  Grim may have even been the one who killed him.

  The thought would be sobering if I wasn’t already all too aware of all the shitty situations gathering other shitty situations like a rolling tumbleweed.

  Above Carlos’s head, written in cloud-like lettering are the words he lived and died a soldier.

  A soldier. Not a friend. Father. Husband. Cousin. Son. Amateur boxer. And I know from just the few short conversations we’d had that he’d been all those things.

  Not even Carlos.

  Just Slinky, the soldier.

  That’s all he was.

  To this town. To Marco. To his own so-called brothers.

  I can’t live in Lacking because I can’t die in Lacking. There won’t even be a mural for me when this town brings me down. I’m no soldier. And no matter how much I pretend to be one, I can’t fall in line like the others. When I die here, I’ll be nothing. Not Emma Jean, the writer and story-teller. The best friend. The girl who likes magic and complaining about her hair in every weather situation.

  I can’t die as nothing.

  I won’t.

  My heartbeat sputters. I cough and try to steady my breath. Turning back around, I head toward the compound and to Gabby as quickly as my feet can take me, staying as close to the buildings and under the shadows as I possibly can.

  The bus tickets suddenly feel like theiy’re burning the inside of my pocket.

  My heart sputters again.

  My confidence crumbles when a rush of doubt comes crashing back into me. My footsteps falter. I catch and grab on to a nearby light post, saving myself and my face from a collision with the sidewalk. I can’t catch my breath. My hair falls forward into my face as I lean over and try to squint through the agony of my chest tightening like a car being squashed in a junkyard.

  What the hell did I do?

  I’ve either bought Gabby and me two tickets to freedom.

  Or the ammunition that will kill us both.

  Fifteen

  Haze is doing recon on the casino girls. There’s no doubt in my mind that Tricks and Gabby are behind the cons. I told him as much after I talked with Belly. If he finds them or any more information about them, he’ll bring them to me first.

  Where the hell has she been for five fucking years?

  If she thinks I’m not going to try and find her after she escaped, she’s wrong. In the meantime, I keep my eyes peeled for her wherever I go. It’s easy. I’ve been doing it for years. Knowing I might actually find her intensifies my search. I scan every single person in the park hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But the possibility of finding Tricks is not the reason I’m here today.

  Well, it’s not the only reason. I’m here to talk to an old enemy, turned friend, but still sort of an enemy.

  Margaret Boeing isn’t your typical woman. She’s not your typical anything.

  During the day, she spends her time attached to one charity or another. At night, she makes ruthless deals with corrupt men, but none of them are more ruthless than Margaret herself.

  Not on their best fucking day.

  When I find her in the park, it’s midday. The sun is shining down through the branches of a large oak directly in the center of a vast open field. She’s smiling from ear to ear, her large, blue earrings shake against her high sharp cheekbones as she laughs with the person she’s serving.

  She’s scooping ladles full of something delicious-smelling onto the waiting plates of Lacking’s homeless and hungry. And since the cereal plant, which employed a large amount of the residents who aren’t in the life, closed a few years ago, there’s a lot of people waiting. Dozens of men and women and even some families pass through the line while Margaret, along with several other volunteers wearing IMMORTALS t-shirts, serve up her famous, and free, Sunday supper.

  Her smile never falters as she feeds one tattered-looking soul after another. The smile doesn’t even drop when she spots me leaning against a bent bike rack at the edge of the field although the sparkle in her eyes dims.

  Margaret doesn’t like it when business interrupts her charity.

  She leans to the side and whispers to the woman standing next to her. She removes her apron from around her neck and passes it to someone nearby who takes over for her. Margaret emerges from behind the table in all her six-foot glory. She’s thin and covered in lean muscle. Her smooth dark skin shines without any help from the sun’s rays. Her black hair is shorn close to her head with a unique slight wave to it like a flapper from the 20’s. Her bright brown eyes burn with questions as she approaches.

  “You know,” I say, looking her up and down. “Anyone looking at you would never guess that you’re old enough to be a mother, never mind a grandmother.” I’m not sucking up. I’m not trying to flirt with her. It’s just the truth.

  “Save it, Grim. I got shit to do today and don’t really have the time for the whole ‘No I’m not, you flatter me’ bullshit.

  “Cutting right to the chase as always.”

  “I’m serious. A shipment of H along with two of my best soldiers went missing
two days ago. You know anything about that?”

  I shake my head. “One of our gun shipments mysteriously disappeared last week.”

  “You got any idea on who?”

  “Well, it’s either someone outside of Lacking, making a move, or Los Muertos is breaking the fucking truce. I haven’t ruled either out just yet.”

  She sighs and rubs her temples. “These boys need to be put the fuck down. I said that before the fucking cease fire, and I’m saying it now.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Seriously, Grim, what the fuck are you doing on my side of town? Especially today. I’m busy if you haven’t noticed,” she says through her teeth, never dropping the smile.

  I raise my eyebrows. “I’m not on your side of town. I'm in the park. Neutral territory. Remember?”

  “I assume you're not here to help with the lunch today,” she says, in her strong yet smooth-sounding British accent.

  “To listen to you talk in that accent of yours, of course,” I say, lighting a joint.

  “Cut the shit, Grim, or I’ll make you deal with Damon.”

  Damon is Margaret’s son. If you ask anyone in town who leads the Immortals, they’ll say Damon. It’s a front. Margaret is the one calling the shots. She just lets everyone believe Damon is the one in charge.

  Including Damon.

  It’s a great cover. Even if she is using her own son as a shield in a way.

  “Not today,” I tell her. I pull the envelope from my back pocket and hand it to her. She looks around to see if anyone is looking before tucking it into the large front pocket of her long flowing skirt. She looks up at me, waiting for an explanation. “That’s your cut. We’re going into a new business venture, and I’d appreciate the support.”

  “The whorehouse?”

  “Strip club and gentleman’s retreat,” I correct her. “And how the fuck did you know?”

  She smacks me with the envelope. “Boy, I’ve been riding Chief David’s dick since before he decided he was suddenly a tribesman. You should know by now. I know everything.”