Crimewave #9: Transgressions

by TTA Press Authors

  "Hey, Princess,” he half-sang. “Do me a favor? Check the girlie room for me. Tell me there ain't somethin’ written in the stalls.” He pointed to the women's restroom. “Somethin’ in big fluorescent orange?"

  She glimpsed pock-marked cheeks, yellow-tinged eyes, and a skull-and-crossbones earring as she ducked past him.

  "Excuse me, Princess. Didn't mean to wrinkle your nose."

  As she rushed to unlock her door, she saw him hesitate next to the women's bathroom, then dip onward.

  The room was ten by ten feet. Locking the door, she dropped her suitcase and collapsed on the small bunk bed. The stink of mildew filled her nostrils. A shoestring dangled from a bare bulb in the ceiling. It twitched as a fly repeatedly landed and took off from it. She reached up and tugged. The room barely woke from shadow. A small desk with two legs missing hunched next to the shuttered window. She imagined herself petting it as she edged toward sleep.

  High-pitched cries brought her to her feet. She tugged down a slat in the blinds and shielded her eyes. The midday sun beat relentlessly down through the smog. Several noisy kids cooled off in the spray of a fire hydrant. She stared at a rainbow scintillating in the spray, feeling for a creative spark in her, a desire to be active once more ... The slat snapped back as she released it. Collapsing on the bed, she pulled off her blonde wig and scratched the brown hair beneath. Then she used a Kleenex to wipe off most of her makeup. She considered washing, but there wasn't a sink in the room. She would have to use the shared lady's bathroom in the hallway. She lay there, worrying the pendant on her necklace, and realized she was too tired to care.

  She woke drenched in sweat and hungry despite the heat. It was four in the afternoon. The women's bathroom had no toilet paper, and the water in the shower was rusty and lukewarm. Despite the heat, she put on makeup, donned the wig again, and slipped into one of her more stylish outfits, an aquamarine dress with black lace.

  She found a McDonald's three blocks away. The clientele was working-class Hispanics, Asians and Blacks, with a smattering of out of work and homeless. Tattoos were everywhere. Pungent sweat mixed with the acrid smell of asphalt, fiberglass, paint, and diesel fuel. She sat down in a corner booth to eat a chicken salad and read the paper. A small headline on page two caught her attention: rainbow killer strikes again. She skimmed the text: ‘The Rainbow Killer struck again, if residents in the South Park district are to be believed. What's known for sure is that three people were killed, a dozen others injured, and four arrests were made—'

  A shadow fell across her, and a Big Mac and coke settled onto the table.

  "Well, if it ain't the Princess."

  She watched as the black man from the hotel hallway dipped into the seat opposite.

  "Nice outfit,” he said, fingering her sleeve. “But McDonald's? Eating alone? These are hard times. Hard times indeed.” He laughed. “The name's Shakes.” He held out his hand. It shook. “You got a name?"

  She ignored his hand. “Princess."

  He laughed for some time at that, exaggerated guffaws that drew everyone's attention. “Princess indeed.” He wiped his brow and grimaced. “It is hot. Hot hot hot. LA this hot?"

  She tensed, wondering how he knew where she was from. It occurred to her he could have glimpsed the airport tag on her suitcase. She took a bite of salad.

  "But you, Princess. You're cool. Yeah. Real cool. Tell ya what I'm gonna do. Seein's how you're new in town, short on company an’ all, and how I happens to got me some spare time, what say I show you the town, make a night of it, see?” He laughed.

  She sipped her Coke. “Could you be more specific? Are we talking opera or ballet?"

  "Opera? Ballet? Sheee-it. I'm talking more like—” his eyes got big for a second “—the Bloodbath Theater. Wait wait wait, now hear me out. Sure, they got roaches, but they keep ‘em on leashes. And tonight—well, tonight's triple-feature night.” He took a large bite of his sandwich.

  She watched him chew. “What time will you pick me up?"

  He choked and wiped his face with a napkin. He stared at her. “Uh, starts at eight, you know, so—” He clapped his hands, and everyone looked his way. “Damn! What am I thinking? I got some shit ta do tonight. Prior commitments, you know?"

  "You were expecting me to say no, weren't you."

  He delivered more long guffaws, interleaved with sharp intakes of air.

  "You wanted me to say no,” she persisted, “so you could go off telling yourself what a stuck-up white bitch I am. It would reaffirm your contempt for well-educated, upper-class whites. That's your game, isn't it. Hating people like me. That's how you get your kicks."

  "Awh, shit,” he said, getting up and dipping away. “You're a crazy fucking bitch, you know that?"

  "Oh, by the way,” she called after him. “A message from the stalls: ‘The pot of gold corrupts the Mother Lode'."

  He stopped and gaped at her, neck twitching, mouth half-open. “Fluorescent orange?"

  She nodded. She had found it in the second stall at the hotel.

  A police officer entered the restaurant and stared at Shakes. Shakes started dipping backwards toward the exit.

  "When will you pick me up?” she called to him.

  He looked from her to the cop while pushing out through the door. “Yeah, sure. Seven-thirty, make it. Seven-fucking-thirty."

  * * * *

  At seven-thirty he came for her. He had made a gallant effort to groom himself. His face looked washed, but worse for it. And his pants and shirt looked clean, though old and badly wrinkled.

  "Uh, we'll have to walk,” he apologized. “Cars and me don't get along. Tend to forget I'm driving. The police, they recommend I don't, you know?"

  "That's fine."

  He looked her over. “Uh, maybe you could dress down a bit. Casualize, you know."

  She had not changed since McDonald's. “I thought you liked my dress."

  "Yeah, well ... Yeah. Yeah, sure. That's fine.” He clapped his hands nervously. “Fine, let's go."

  As they walked down a garbage-strewn street toward the theater, she asked him what the graffiti was all about.

  He dipped and shrugged. “Some dude I don't like. Had myself a good janitor job couple months back. Lost it ‘cause of him. Boss told me to stop the graffiti. No can do. Not with Fluorescent Orange working the stalls. A cross-dresser, he is. Or she. Hits boys and girls bathrooms both. Worst serial graffitist this city seen. But I'll catch him. He keeps dropping clues. ‘A pot of gold corrupts the Mother Lode'. See? He's a miner, works in a jewelry store. Got a hang-up on his mom. I'll catch him. Someone's gotta. ‘Cause he ain't just got a mind to hurt me. No. This guy's a maniac. Yeah, I can feel it. He's dangerous."

  "Like the Rainbow Killer?"

  A sly grin crept onto his face. “Shit. You don't believe that crap."

  She shrugged. “Who knows what to believe these days?"

  The Bloodbath Theater was a progressive entertainment center, as stated beneath the marquee. Several lawn sprinklers were rigged to the ceiling, and every time a bloody scene appeared on screen, fake blood spewed across the audience. Protective plastic garments and goggles were available to those wanting them. Gloria and Shakes both donned them. The triple feature consisted of Panic in the Seats, Wince is Not Enough, and Leave it to Cleaver. They stayed for all three, getting out at midnight. Out on the street, Shakes turned critic.

  "Blood don't look like that, no way. Not that red. Don't spray like that either. It spurts. You know, in time with the heart. And those weren't real intestines. Roxie—she's my late wife—when she got gutted, they was whiter, looked like spaghetti spilling on the floor. Say, you hungry? I know a real good Italian place stays open till two."

  She took a deep breath to fight down her queasiness. “No, I'm fine. About your wife—did they find who did it?"

  "Oh, it was me. Don't worry. I'm rehabbed. Ten years in the pen. Five years of counseling shit. Hardly think about doing things like that no more."

  Glor
ia took another deep breath. “Your wife must have done some-thing terrible to provoke you like that."

  "Nope. I just kinda went berserk. We're watching the cartoons, see, and then I'm standing there with a butcher knife going to town. Total fuckin’ freak-out. Spaghetti on the floor. Rehab time. Say, we could eat Thai. Kanomwan's good."

  She shook her head. “No food, please."

  "Shakes!” someone shouted nearby.

  "Honker, my man!"

  Gloria watched as Shakes exchanged a complex handshake with a chubby black man, who gave her a suspicious look.

  "She's cool, Honker,” Shakes said. “She's cool."

  "She the type makes you wanta think she's cool."

  "Honker, you just jealous. We went to the Bloodbath. Shit, she loved it."

  Gloria met Honker's fiery gaze and did not blink.

  "What you want with Shakes?” Honker said. “What you setting him up for?"

  "Shakes is showing me the city,” she answered.

  "Yeah, Honker. It's a fucking date, see? And I'm showing her the city."

  Honker shook his head and started off. He cast back, “Shakes, when you remember you're black, drag what balls you got left down to Ja Ja's. Crazy muthafucka—"

  "Fucking paranoid!” Shakes shouted after him.

  "It's okay,” Gloria calmed him. “You can't expect him to trust a total stranger."

  "Yeah, well, he's a stranger to me, now on. Muthafuckin’ mutha-fucka."

  "What's this Ja Ja's he mentioned?"

  "Just a hangout,” he said. “Nothin’ special."

  "I wouldn't mind hanging out a while,” she said.

  He laughed out loud at that. “Not with these cats. They ain't your type."

  "What is my type?"

  "This ain't."

  "But you hang out with them."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "Then they're my type."

  He stopped and picked up a chunk of concrete. He hurled it through a window. “What the fuck you want with my type anyway?” He threw another chunk. “What you want from me?” He threw a third chunk.

  She winced at shattering glass. “I—I want you to show me the town—like you said you would. Your town."

  * * * *

  Twelve blocks west, they ducked down some steps under a strip joint. The ground-level windows were boarded up, and the door was wall-papered with a black-brick pattern. Shakes knocked lightly, then opened the door. They entered a small foyer whose walls were covered with street signs. Music, voices, and a harsh clacking came from beyond a beaded curtain. Shakes parted it, and Gloria stepped through.

  The room was dark, lit by purple Chinese lanterns and a large flat-panel TV on the wall. She choked. A Casablanca fan, slowed by small objects dangling from the blades, barely cut the marijuana haze. Gangsta rap pulsed in the background, obliterated by the clash of skateboards as two teenagers fought with them like swords. One almost hit her.

  "Hey, man!” Shakes said, grabbing the skateboard. “Watch the Princess."

  "Oh yeah?” The teenager jerked it free and held it up threateningly.

  "Onus. Slick. Take it outside,” said a large Chicano with a spidery eyepatch.

  "Awh, man, we ain't doin'—"

  "Take it outside!"

  They left grumbling. Even as the beads settled, Honker pushed in through them. He gave Shakes and Gloria a nasty look, then squeezed past and settled on a sofa.

  Gloria looked about. Two people sat on a second old sofa, five more were playing poker around a card table in the back, several more were sprawled on the floor. All were male. Most had been watching a boxing match on TV. But right now she felt herself the focus of attention.

  "She's cool,” Shakes told everyone. “She's cool, really."

  "Shakes,” someone said out of the smoke. “You pimping these days?"

  "She—” His shake got worse. He swallowed hard. “She ain't that type, Milo."

  "Come on, Shakes. Give us a stab at her. We'll tell ya what ta charge."

  "You watch your face, Belly!” he said, pointing a stern finger at a heavy-set white man lotused against the wall. “She's—” he hesitated “—a good friend o’ mine."

  "Shakes. You ain't got no friends."

  "Maybe it's his sister."

  Everyone laughed.

  "Go fuck yourself.” Shakes hooked her arm and led her over to where Honker sat. “Mind if we join ya?"

  Honker scooted aside, pretending to be intent on the boxing match. Gloria sat at the opposite end of the sofa, with Shakes in the middle. She shifted about to avoid springs pressing up through the cushion.

  "Shakes,” Belly said. “Least you could do is offer the lady a drink."

  He jumped up. “Uh, yeah, Princess. Want some refreshment?"

  "Re-fresh-ment,” Milo said, amused by the word. “Re-fresh-ment."

  "A beer would be fine,” she said.

  As Shakes headed for the kitchen, several new people entered and went in a back room. Others emerged and left. They did so as inconspicuously as possible, casting suspicious looks her way. She glanced aside at Honker, still intent on the fight. “You followed Shakes and me here,” she said to him.

  Honker gave her a peeved look, then shifted over close to her. “Let me tell you ‘bout Shakes and me. See, we were pen pals, a dime's worth. Watched each other's back. Still do.” He grabbed her hand and placed it on his side.

  She felt a gun.

  "I wouldn't want nothin’ bad happenin’ to Shakes. See?"

  "I wouldn't either,” she said. “But suppose something did. How would you go about killing me?"

  He glared at her.

  "Would it be execution style, one or two shots point blank to the base of the skull? Or would you just blast away at my heart?"

  He gave her a hard, waffled look, then stood up. “You don't read right, Princess. You watch it, or I'll do worse than you can imagine.” He walked back to join the card players.

  "What was that about?” Shakes said, returning with two beers.

  "Honker just wanted to know if I needed anything."

  "Nah nah nah, that ain't Honker. Whatever he said, don't pay him no mind. He just jealous."

  A rap song ended and another one started. More people entered and left the back room. “Business,” was all Shakes would say about it. Most were Black, with some Chicanos and Asians. Once she heard angry voices coming from there, but no one seemed to pay it any heed.

  One card player caught her attention. Mustachioed and Hollywood handsome, he was dressed in an oversized jacket with a yellow shirt and a red tie. He tipped his white panama hat to her and smiled.

  "Shakes,” she said, “who's Mister Color Conscious over there?"

  "Oh, that there's Duke. Used to be on Soul Train. Dude can dance, that's for sure. Good with the chicks, too. He'll hit on you ‘fore the night's out.” He gave her a sincere look. “Hey, you wanna leave with him, that's your business. I understand."

  "What makes you think I'd want to leave with him?” she said. “You think he's better than you?"

  "Shit no. Just that, you know...” He let it fade out.

  A weaselly black man shuffled out of the shadows, carrying a small sack. He hit a wall switch, and the Casablanca fan began to slow.

  "Awh, Loon! Don't do that! It's fuckin’ hot!"

  "Goddammit, Loon! Turn it back on!"

  Loon paid them no heed. Gloria now saw that the objects hanging from the blades were Ken and Barbie dolls. Loon climbed up on a chair and started stringing more dolls to the blades.

  "That's Loon,” Shakes said to her. “One time he built a time machine out of milk cartons. It worked. Problem was, we couldn't move more than five or six seconds forward or back. He should've used the plastic gallon jugs.” Shakes toasted the fan with his beer. “Now he's playing with them dolls. Been doing it a month now. Says he'll bring back Elvis. No musical taste, Loon. Should bring back Notorious BIG."

  "Hurry up, Loon! I'm turning it back on!"

 
The beads parted, and a tall black man entered, cursing under his breath.

  "Ja Ja, my man! Where you been? You missed the fight."

  "Muthafuckin’ po-leece,” he said, peeling off his shirt. “You believe that shit? I—” He stopped to look up at the fan. “Awh, Loon! Jesus! It's an oven in here!” He cursed a moment longer, then resumed. “Yeah, man, I was walkin’ down the middle of the goddamned street, minding my own business, and the po-leece put me down, give me the spread. Believe that? Shit, no one usin’ the goddamned street.” He held up his wrists. “Cuffed me good, those muthafuckas. Down to the station. In-ter-ro-ga-tion. Two fuckin’ hours. What the fuck for?"

  "The way the System works,” someone said. “Cops want us small fry, ‘cause we easy game."

  "Lazy sons of bitches,” Ja Ja grumbled. “We oughta—” He paused, staring at the traffic in and out of the back room. “Hey. Hey! What's that shit?"

  "Mamba's unloadin’ some stuff,” Milo said.

  "That fuckin’ moron! Why's he doin’ that here? Shit. Loon! Hurry it up! We're sweating like pigs! Jesus."

  "Us small fry,” Belly said. “Police go after us ‘cause they afraid o’ the real muthas. That strangler in the Cloverleaf, how many he got now? Six?"

  "And slice-and-dice on the docks. He's been cutting up whores a year now, they care?"

  Gloria leaned forward and cleared her throat. “What about the Rain-bow Killer?"

  Everyone looked at her, including Ja Ja. “Who the fuck's this?” he said. “Just who the fuck is—?"

  "Shake's chick,” someone said.

  "Yeah, she with me,” Shakes said. “She cool."

  "She with you, Shakes?” Ja Ja's expression turned incredulous. “And you say she's okay? Shakes, you ain't got a fuckin'—!"

  "She's okay,” came a deep voice. “I know her."

  Gloria looked for the speaker. He was the colorful card player, the one Shakes called Duke.