by Brent Pilkey
Mason cocked an eyebrow so she carried on. “Guy picked her up at Church and Gerrard. She took him to her normal laneway and the guy just beat the living hell out of her.”
“Any description of the suspect?”
Jack was already flipping back through his notebook. “Male white,” he read when he found the right page. “Young, early twenties most likely. Short brown hair, clean shaven. Muscular but not like a bodybuilder.”
“So it isn’t Kris,” Taftmore announced.
“Shut the fuck up, Taft,” the other three mcu coppers said together.
Practice makes perfect, Jack guessed then went back to his notes. “That’s it, except for a strong jaw. No description on the car except for small and dark-coloured.”
“When did that one happen?” Mason asked.
Jack checked his notes. “Wednesday night, close to midnight.”
The detective nodded. “As of Saturday night, we have a second one.”
“We didn’t hear anything about it on parade yesterday,” Jenny pointed out.
“Didn’t get reported till yesterday evening when the victim regained consciousness.”
“Another hooker?”
Mason nodded grimly. “A tranny got beaten half to death in the parking lot off Homewood.”
“Whoa,” Jack interrupted. “Lee and I did a tranny and her john by that parking lot Saturday night. What time did it happen?”
“Right around the time you gave those two their papers; we checked your notes.”
“Did that fucker come back?”
Mason heaved a sigh. “That’s what we thought. It certainly would have made things easier, but we tracked down your hooker and spoke to him. He said our victim headed into the parking lot with a trick just a few minutes before she hooked up with the one you pinched her with.” Mason shook his head. “Damn it, I hate talking about trannies. I don’t know whether to call them he or she and keep getting fucking confused.”
“It happens to guys your age, boss,” Tank offered.
Mason glared at Tank and the big sumo Viking found something interesting on his desk to study. “Your tranny,” Mason said, turning back to Jack, “couldn’t give us any description beyond white male.”
“Fuck me,” Jack suddenly exclaimed. “I thought I heard something in that lot. Fuck, it was probably him.”
“You didn’t check it out?” Mason wondered aloud.
“We were going to, but then the stabbing came over and we headed down to that. Fuck,” he swore in frustration.
“Bad luck. Happens all the time.”
Jenny spoke up. “Are you sure it’s the same guy? Our victim was female and you said this one was a tranny. Could some john have just freaked out when he realized the hooker was a guy?”
“It’s possible,” Mason conceded. “The tranny’s Asian and a john wouldn’t know he wasn’t dealing with the real thing until it was too late. But the description, as shit as it is, matches: male white, young, dark hair, muscular build. So for now we’re treating it like it’s the same guy.” Mason pointed a finger at Jenny. “You see anyone that might be this guy and you signal for a high-risk takedown. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.” Mason swept the officers with his eyes. “Well? Get the fuck out of my office.”
Pembroke Street was a little one-way running south off Gerrard Street, opposite Allan Gardens. The homes lining the asphalt were two- and three-storey and old, their bricks having endured decades of seasons. The front yards were small, the trees shading them mature and just as weathered as the houses. It would have been a quiet, picturesque street, except it was in 51 Division.
The Seaton House, that granddaddy of hostels, was just one street over and George and Pembroke were connected by well-travelled laneways at the north and south ends of the streets. Crack central, the intersection of Sherbourne and Dundas streets, was just one tiny block away and Pembroke was a major artery feeding the heart of the drug trade.
And the ladies of the night — or afternoon or early morning; crack whores didn’t keep regular schedules — frequently worked the sidewalks, laneways and doorsteps of Pembroke Street. It wasn’t uncommon for residents to step out onto the front porch to collect the morning paper and interrupt a “business transaction.” When the oldest profession began to occupy too much of the neighbourhood, the ladies and their clients had to be encouraged to change locale.
Which was why Tank and Kris were heading over to Pembroke with Jack and Jenny in the back seat of the banged-up and abused Ford Taurus.
Jack listened to the engine’s irregular sounds. “What year is the car, Tank?”
The big cop shrugged, his meaty shoulders overflowing the sides of the driver’s seatback. “Dunno. Two, three years, I guess. Why?”
“I’m suddenly not feeling so bad about my Taurus.”
“Tank has that effect on cars,” Kris commented. She reached over to stroke the back of Tank’s bald head when the sumo-Viking began to pout. “It’s okay, Tanky. I’m just teasing.”
Jack watched avidly the way Kris’s fingers toyed with Tank’s ear, then turned to Jenny, mouthing Tanky to her. She bobbed her shoulders, an amused smile touching her lips. Her shoulders weren’t nearly as wide as Tank’s and came nowhere near to spilling out of her seat, but they did interesting things to the front of her grey T-shirt.
Jack pulled his eyes away — reluctantly — just as Tank turned onto Pembroke. There was an Aboriginal community centre on the southeast corner with a miniature parking lot behind it. The laneway starting at George Street cut across Pembroke to open up farther over at Sherbourne Street, leaving the parking lot open on two sides. Tank backed in to give him and his partner — Jack wondered if the term “partner” could be applied outside of work then decided it wasn’t any of his business — a clear view of the street.
Kris twisted around in her seat to face Jack and Jenny. Tank watched them in the rearview mirror; Jack doubted the big cop could turn that easily in the confines of the small car. As it was, Tank had the seat back enough so Jack was almost sucking on his own kneecaps.
“Okay, Tank and I are going to stay in the car —”
“With the air conditioning,” Jenny interjected.
Kris smiled. “Someone has to, and besides, you don’t want to be near Tank when he starts to sweat.” Tank shook his head as if to say, No, you don’t.
Kris gestured over her shoulder at a yellow-bricked semi-detached house on the west side of the street. “There’s a bag of bottled water back there; you guys may need it. Jenny, hang out by the semi there, closer to the south end. Jack, see the porch at the north end? Grab a seat there. That way, when a car pulls up to talk to our little money-maker here, we’ll all be in his blind spots in case we need to sneak up on him.
“Now because the car will be between us,” she went on, “Tank and I won’t be able to see your signal, but Jack will. There should be an empty beer can somewhere back there, Jack. Just hang on to it and when Jenny signals for the pinch you make like you’re taking a drink. Tank’ll pin the john in with the car and we’ll lay some paper on him. Jenny, as we’re processing him, disappear into the lane so any other passing johns won’t associate you with us. We all good? Let’s do it.”
“‘Let’s do it,’ she says,” Jenny grumbled as she and Jack crossed the street. “They’ve got the AC. We’ve been outside thirty seconds and I’m already too hot.”
“You could never be too hot for me,” Jack assured her with a sombre face then broke into a grin. “Actually, I’m tempted to inquire about your prices.”
With her own solemn expression, she told him, “You couldn’t afford me.”
“Don’t you give a partner discount?”
“That’s with the discount.”
“Ouch.” They were in front of the semi, street numbers 114 and 116; the front yard of
weeds and dead grass would give Jack an unobstructed view of his partner as she fished for johns. “I think I’ll just settle for watching your ass. It’s my job, after all.”
“Don’t you mean cover my ass?”
Jack flipped his hands up. “Watch, cover. Same thing.”
“Well, remember to check out my feet every once in a while; I won’t be signally with my ass.” Jenny gathered up her T-shirt and knotted it below her breasts to bare her midriff. “Ah, much better.”
“I didn’t know your belly button was pierced.”
“Gives the guy something to play with on his way down.” Leaving her partner open-mouthed and speechless, she headed out to peddle her ass.
An old, beat-up Toyota that made Jack’s Ford look like a floor model rolled to the curb, the engine wheezing heavily. The passenger window lowered in jerks and Jenny sauntered over to her first customer of the day. She gave the back seat a quick scan — empty — as she approached the car, then leaned into the open window, crossing her arms beneath her. She hissed as her bare skin touched the door’s metal, heated beyond belief by the gruelling sun. She rolled her forearms forward so they rested on the cooler side of the window partition. Her sunglasses shielded her eyes from the john as she swiftly but thoroughly examined him and the car’s interior.
The inside of the Toyota was as dilapidated as its exterior but clear of weapons or anything suspicious. Unless it was tucked away somewhere, of course. The driver was in far better condition than his car. Asian, middle-aged, with a predatory glint in his eye, he stared at Jenny like a hungry cat spying a tasty mouse.
Jenny smiled; this one was going to be easy. She bet herself she could have him hooked and reeled in within twenty seconds. “You looking for some action, hon?” she purred.
“You know it, baby. But the question is —” he leered as he twisted in his seat to face Jenny and brought his knee up “— can you handle my action?” Grinning proudly, he let his right leg fall open.
His pants were undone and there was no doubting he was ready for action. Jenny felt like she was being stared at by a third eye.
“What type of action you looking for?” she asked with a husky breathlessness before slowly licking her lips.
“I want you to wrap those luscious lips around my dick and suck it.” If nothing else, the john certainly couldn’t be criticized for shyness.
Hooked.
“Sounds good to me, hon. How much you gonna give me?”
“Forty. Fifty if you let me come in your mouth.”
And reeled.
Now to land him. Out of sight to the john, Jenny casually crossed her ankles. Behind her, on his porch, Jack raised his beer can and seconds later Tank was lifting the john out of his car.
“Speak no English! Speak no English!” the john was squawking as he tried to keep his pants from slithering down his legs. His third eye was suddenly looking not so potent.
That’s one.
The stench didn’t slap Jenny in the face so much as shove itself up her nose. She nearly gagged but covered it with a lopsided smile.
“Looking for some action, hon?” she invited as she casually shifted back from the open window. The car was a big fuel-guzzler, sleek and glossy. The driver may have been a big guzzler himself, but he was far from sleek and glossy. Oily, but not glossy.
He was a chubby, small man perched behind the wheel of his road boat. What little hair he had was slicked across his sunburned scalp. His suit jacket was folded neatly on the passenger seat and Jenny could see that, despite the cold blasted out by the air conditioning, the john had sweated huge stains into his shirt. The car reeked of body odour and she had to keep reminding herself smells couldn’t physically touch.
The john stared straight ahead, nervously kneading the steering wheel. He had yet to look in Jenny’s direction. She felt a pang of sympathy for the man.
“I’ll give you fifteen dollars to have sex with me,” he said to the windshield.
Fifteen! Not that much sympathy.
Jenny crossed her ankles.
“It sure is hot, isn’t it?”
Jenny wiped sweat from her brow then peered at the john seductively over the rim of her sunglasses. “It’s very hot,” she said suggestively.
“Are you all sweaty?”
“All over.” She smiled, almost leered, then slowly winked at the john. She couldn’t believe she had resorted to winking, but this john was refusing to be hooked. First he had cruised by several times; his flame-red pickup wasn’t hard to miss. Then, when he’d finally stopped with his window-shopping, he talked about the weather — It’s hot, you idiot — and now he wanted to know if she was sweating. She felt like giving him the finger and telling him to fuck off but there was no way she was going to let him slip free after spending so much time with him.
“All over?” He rubbed his stubbled chin as if he was contemplating a grave decision. “I watched you, you know, when I drove by.”
Duh. I’m surprised you didn’t drive into a parked car.
“You’re wearing high heels. I like that.” Mr. Pickup rubbed his chin again. “Yeah, a lot better than sandals.”
“You like my shoes?” How about I brain you with one of them?
Mr. Pickup was starting to breathe heavy, almost pant. “Yeah, I do. I bet your feet are real sweaty in them.”
Bingo! Now I know how to hook you. Jenny let a smile slowly, sensually spread across her lips. “And what do you want to do with my hot, sweaty feet?”
Mr. Pickup leaned toward Jenny so much he was practically crawling into the passenger seat. “I wanna suck on your toes,” he said fervently.
Does that count as a sex act? Jenny was sure it would be for the john, but it might not be enough for the courts.
She pouted. “Is that all?”
“Then I want you to jerk me off with your feet.” The john was all but trembling with excitement.
Now that’s more like it. Time to reel this fish in. “How much? I got real pretty feet.”
“Is eighty enough?” Mr. Pickup asked trepidatiously.
Mr. Fifteen Dollars oughta talk to you. “That’s just fine, hon.”
The afternoon was a steady stream of johns: married johns wanting what the wife wouldn’t give; businessmen johns looking to blow off some corporate steam; cabby johns — cheap bastards — offering to trade a free ride for sex and even one john couple anxious for a threesome. The latest was a knob hoping for a birthday freebie.
Jenny blew the knob a little kiss and left him in the hands of the MCU cops, then cut across the brief front lawn to join Jack on the porch. She held back a smile when she noticed his eyes dip as he quickly checked her out. She didn’t mind; he wasn’t blatant or stupid about it. Not like the knob back there. He’d stared at her breasts so intently she could have been holding her badge next to them and he would have never noticed. She knew Jack was attracted to her and she wasn’t stupid enough to deny her similar feelings.
Why are the good ones always taken?
That Jack was one of the good ones she had no doubt, wouldn’t have paired up with him otherwise. But he was a man in pain. The constant fighting with his wife and her parents — if Jenny ever met either of those nosy, interfering asses, she would gladly teach them not to fuck with her partner — was inevitably eroding his spirit. When he had come to 51 last summer, she had seen a gleam, an excitement in his eyes. Now that light was gone and in the shadow left behind lurked something that Jack kept buried deep inside himself, hidden away from those around him. It hurt her to see him slowly buckling under the pressure.
Oh, damn. I think I’m falling for him.
But there was no rule against caring for your partner and if she could rekindle that light, that gleam, even for a moment by flirting or showing off her flat stomach, then that’s what she was going to do. Jack needed a safe place, a place wh
ere he could forget about, and escape, the stress and hassle of his personal life. And if that place turned out to be the inside of their scout car, then so be it.
“You’re looking awfully serious,” Jack commented as he handed her a bottle of water.
Jenny cracked the bottle and took a long pull. She was tempted to dump the rest over herself — damn, it was hot! — but a wet T-shirt might take the whole flirting thing a bit too far.
“Just an idiot,” she explained. “That guy was so damn stupid I probably could have gotten him if I was in uniform. Trust me,” she went on when Jack raised a disbelieving eyebrow her way. “There are guys that stupid. Last time I did a sweep, Mason didn’t tell me till the day of — all I had was a Toronto Police T-shirt and I still got guys. I just told them some cops gave it to me and it meant other cops should leave me alone.”
Jack laughed. “Some guys just can’t think with both heads at once.”
Kris was waving at them. “Hey, Jack. C’mere for a sec.”
“Duty calls,” he said, excusing himself.
Jenny downed the rest of the water and snagged another bottle before ducking into the laneway to keep out of sight of potential pinches.
She leaned against the brick wall. The sun may have been settling on the skyline but the bricks still held the heat that had been baked into them all day. The heat was uncomfortable on her shoulders but, damn it, she was too tired to stand up by herself.
Who would’ve thought strutting up and down the sidewalk could be tiring? Damn, I should have grabbed Jack’s chair.
The heat from the bricks was starting to feel good on her back, loosening muscles she hadn’t known were tight. She closed her eyes and sipped from her bottle.
Damn, I’m one pooped crack whore.
Jesse Polan was horny.
Horny and sore. A stay in the hospital will do that to a guy. Two days without a piece of rock or a piece of tail. And those fucking bitch nurses acting like their shit was gold or something. Fuck.
I should get a fucking bigger gun. A big fucking ak fucking gun and waste those high-snotted bitches.