Penance

by Rick R. Reed

  Richard watched as the boy exited the car.

  *

  Miranda fingered the rhinestone necklace atop her head. “So, I’ll ask you: What brings you out, since you seem to have trouble finding the evening’s charms?”

  The man snorted. “How old are you? Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

  Miranda looked at him, lowering the corners of her red-lacquered lips into a frown. “Maybe I don’t have time…” She began to back away from the truck.

  “Wait.”

  Miranda smiled and returned, leaning far enough into the pickup to smell its interior (cherry pipe smoke) and see the green glow of the dashboard lights.

  “What brought me out here is loneliness, the need for a little company.”

  Miranda watched as the man took on a serious expression. The games we play.

  “Are you a police officer, sir?”

  “I’m an officer of love, my lady.”

  Give me a break. Miranda shook her head. Enough of this. “What do you want?” she finally said, staring at him, turning this meeting into what it really was: a business transaction.

  But the man still hadn’t gotten the hint. “All I want is the pleasure of your company.”

  “Define pleasure.”

  The man sat back in his seat, putting his hand to his chin. “Why, nothing more than…”

  “Cut the shit. It’s cold out here.”

  “How much for a blow?” The man looked out the other window after saying the words. Suddenly, he seemed tired.

  “I’ll give you great head for thirty bucks,” Miranda said, her hand on the door handle.

  “I can only give you ten,” the man said, toying with a loose thread he’d discovered on the hem of his overcoat. “It’s all I have on me.”

  Miranda looked down the street and saw that traffic had thinned. “I guess it’ll have to do. Let’s go. I’ll show you where you can park.”

  As she was closing the door, she thought she heard someone call her name. Too late…perchance another day.

  She pulled the door shut behind her. The man had his radio tuned to some top forty station. “Mind if I find some new age music?” she asked, toying with the radio buttons. “Turn around and head east, toward the lake.”

  *

  Jimmy felt himself almost crumple to the ground. He pounded the palm of his hand against the brick building he stood next to. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, ignoring the glare of an old woman, who hurried past him, dragging an aluminum cart filled with grocery bags.

  He ran for a few feet after the truck, thinking that if he couldn’t catch up with it, at least he could get the license plate number. But the truck was quick to merge with other traffic, changing lanes almost immediately, and rounding the corner ahead before he could make out the plates in the darkness.

  A car pulled to the corner. “Jesus Christ,” Jimmy said aloud, “just what I need.”

  “Maybe He is just what you need,” a voice came from the car. “Maybe He’s what we both need. Get in.”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. Under his breath, he muttered, “Gimme a break.” Then he got into the car.

  *

  “This seems kind of public, doesn’t it?” The man looked nervously around him. He and Miranda had parked on Winthrop, near Ardmore. All around them were parked cars and run-down apartment buildings. Everything seemed crammed together, with no room for air. They could hear the traffic on Sheridan Road, two blocks over, whiz by. Ahead, a dented, double-parked Thunder-bird’s emergency signals waxed and waned.

  “Sometimes,” Miranda said, pulling the rhinestone necklace off her head and tucking it into a coat pocket, “the most public places offer the most privacy. Believe me, I know.”

  “Yeah? Well, I don’t know.” The guy was still looking out the window. Miranda noticed how quickly his eyes moved…back and forth…back and forth. He tensed as an old Mustang roared by, its suspensions squeaking as it hammered into potholes.

  “Relax.” Miranda spread herself out across the seat and reached for the man’s zipper. She pulled it down and groped inside. He leaned back against the seat, whispered, “Wait,” and reclined the seat a little.

  “That’ll make things a bit more obvious,” Miranda said, “but with the dark and the cold, it probably won’t make much difference.” She finally got his dick out and saw he was already hard. The nervousness hadn’t affected him too much. She lowered her head and engulfed him in her mouth. He gasped and pushed her head down farther, thrusting up into her mouth until her eyes teared.

  It was over in seconds.

  Miranda sat up quickly, opened the passenger door, and spat the man’s come onto the curb by the car. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “I thought I told you not to do that.”

  The man grinned at her. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah? Well, why don’t you just get me over to TJ’s on Broadway like you promised.”

  “Is that it, then?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Miranda said, “what do you want? Me to say ‘I love you’?”

  The man didn’t respond. He put the truck in gear and pulled out onto Winthrop.

  Less than forty-five minutes later, Richard and Jimmy saw Miranda coming out of TJ’s.

  “There she is!” Jimmy pointed to a red-haired girl. She looked too thin to withstand the winter wind, pale and frightened. Too young to be out alone on a Saturday night. Her clothes hung on her thin frame. Cheap paste jewels shone dully in her dirty, close-cropped hair. She wasn’t even pretty. All she had going for her was her youth. And with the life she was leading, she wouldn’t have that for long. She held a brown paper bag.

  Richard pulled the car over a few parking spaces up from the store and Jimmy hopped out of the car. In his rearview mirror, Richard watched Jimmy run up to Miranda and throw his arms around her. She pushed him away, holding him out at arm’s length and looking at him strangely. The two talked for a while and Richard wondered what Jimmy was saying to her.

  Wondered why Miranda was back, since Jimmy was so certain Dwight had gotten her. How had she gotten away? Jimmy headed back to the car after a while. Miranda stayed in a doorway next to the liquor store. She unscrewed the cap of whatever she had in the bag, lifted the bag to her mouth, and took a long swallow.

  Jimmy opened the door. “She don’t wanna come. You gotta come talk to her, make her see.”

  “Well, what about Dwight?” Richard asked. “Didn’t she go with him?”

  Jimmy grinned. “Wrong pickup, I guess.”

  Richard shut the engine off and thought for a moment about how he should phrase things, about what he could do to convince her to get off the streets, a dangerous place to be sure, but suddenly even more dangerous than usual.

  “Did you show her the letter?”

  “Miranda can’t read.”

  “Oh.” Grebb followed Jimmy back to the girl.

  “Miranda,” Jimmy said, “this is the guy I was tellin’ you about. He’s a priest.”

  Miranda grinned and took another long pull from the bottle she was holding. “You gettin’ religious on me, Fels? You wanna convert me or something?”

  “Nothin’ like that, ’Ran. You know better.”

  “Miranda,” the priest began, “did Jimmy tell you about a letter he got today at his mother’s?”

  “Yeah, he told me and I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.”

  “It’s got a lot to do with you,” Richard said. “It’s got everything to do with anyone who spends time, like you do, on the streets. It’s got everything to do with anyone who’s a friend of Jimmy’s.”

  “Look, Father,” Miranda said, putting a mocking emphasis on the word, “Jimmy’s been around enough to know there’s a lot of sickos out there. Right?” She looked at Jimmy, but didn’t give him time to respond. “It’s a chance we all take with the lives we lead, you know? Just because one of these sick guys tracks Jimmy down and writes him a scary lett
er doesn’t mean anything. There’s enough to be scared of around here without worrying about guys who write letters.” Miranda had a smirk on her face.

  Richard continued, his tone patient. “Look, Miranda. Surely you’ve noticed some of your friends are missing. They—”

  “Some of my friends are always missing, Father.” Miranda took another drink.

  Richard could already smell the odor of alcohol on her, clinging.

  Miranda shook her head, her lips turned up in a condescending smirk. “War Zone has been known to disappear with a trick for weeks at a time; he likes to live with them, I guess. Play son. Little T doesn’t go for as long, but Jimmy knows he’s spent a few days with a trick who’s willing to feed, put him up, and pay him. Randy’s a man. He can take care of himself. Any one of us knows that Randy could be gone one day; he’s got better things to do than hang around with us.” She lifted the bottle to her mouth again, swallowed over and over, then dropped the bag and bottle to the ground. It clinked. Miranda giggled, wiped her hands on her thighs. She looked back at the priest as if she dared him to say something.

  “Besides, Father, I know this won’t hold much weight with the likes of you, but I believe it: I’m psychic. Cancerians are very psychic, you know, the most psychic of all signs. If something bad was happening, I’d sense it, sure as I sense this damn cold.” Miranda looked at both of them. “I don’t feel anything. So why don’t you two just bug off and let me finish my evening in peace. I’ll let you know if anyone wants to kidnap me.” She rolled her eyes and turned her back on them.

  Richard looked at Jimmy, hoping the boy would give him some clue as to how to deal with her. Jimmy’s mouth had become set in a thin line and his eyebrows had come together in anger. “C’mon ’Ran,” Jimmy whispered, his words tense, desperate.

  Richard said, “Look, Miranda, I’ve got a warm place you can stay tonight. How would that be? Just a nice warm bed. No one to bother you.”

  Miranda grinned. “Oh, I get it.” She winked at Jimmy. “Into pimping now, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy screwed up his face. “Don’t be an asshole. He’s a priest. He just wants to help.” Jimmy spat on the ground. “Why don’t you help yourself out for once in your fuckin’ life?”

  “Thanks, but I can do okay on my own.” Miranda began to walk away from them. Richard watched Jimmy run after her, grab her shoulder. She wrenched away from him, holding up a forefinger in his face. “Don’t you ever grab me like that!” she screeched: “Don’t you ever lay a fuckin’ hand on me! Ever!”

  Richard wondered where her rage was coming from: the alcohol or something worse? But there was no time to wonder. He began to stride quickly toward the pair, knowing that force would not win any battles.

  “Jimmy, go on back to the car.” Richard made his voice stern, and Jimmy looked up at him in surprise.

  “But she ain’t…”

  “Just go. Now.” Richard tried to make him understand with his gaze that he could handle this.

  Jimmy’s shoulders slumped. He began to head toward the car. Grebb watched him pause to light a cigarette.

  He turned back to Miranda, who stood with her arms crossed in front of her, tapping her toe. She wouldn’t look at him. She examined the storefront across from her (The Paperback Exchange…Buy & Sell), the cloud cover above, the traffic moving by, anything but Richard Grebb’s eyes.

  “I know what appeals to you,” he said. “And if that’s what it’ll take to maybe save your life, I’ll gladly give it.”

  He waited for a moment and she finally did look his way, not into his eyes, but at least toward his face. She continued to wait.

  “How much will it take, Miranda?”

  “For what?” she said, her voice flat.

  “For you to come home with me…for an all-nighter.”

  Her lips curled up in a grin. “What is this?”

  “A proposition, I guess. C’mon, Miranda. You’ve got your price. What’ll it be?”

  “What do I have to do for it?”

  “Not a thing. Just come and sleep it off at my house. I suspect Jimmy will be there, too.”

  Miranda thought for a moment, then met Richard’s eyes. “I guess fifty bucks would do it.”

  “Good. Let’s go. Jimmy’s waiting in the car.” He turned and began walking.

  “Father. Wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “Cash up-front.”

  * * *

  The search had yielded little. Dwight sat in his truck, shivering. Perhaps the cold had been too much this Saturday night. Perhaps his timing was off.

  He knew he needed to finish things up…and soon. His visitor from the other night (the one he had to give a very severe headache to) had known his name.

  And that meant others might know his name, too.

  And if others knew his name, that could lead to his being discovered.

  He didn’t care about going to jail. He didn’t care about his name being in the papers.

  He did care about completing his plan.

  “Looks like you’re pretty close to screwing this up, lamebrain.”

  The voice came out of the darkness, jolting him.

  Dwight’s hands flew up to cover his ears. “Not now,” he whispered and then moved his hands to adjust the brim of the Bears Super Bowl cap he wore.

  *

  Miranda looked around the room. Barren: this place had no psychic energy. Nothing significant, she was sure, had ever happened in this room.

  “It’s not much,” the priest said, “but it’s warm and clean. Jimmy stayed here once.”

  Miranda looked over at Jimmy, who looked away. She crossed the room and sat down on the twin bed.

  “You can use the little bathroom over there.” Richard pointed to a door on the right side of the room. “There’s just a sink and toilet; when you want to shower in the morning, you can use the main bathroom. It’s down the hall.” He smiled at her.

  The guy was a total bore, Miranda thought, hands against the nappy blue blanket on the bed. She took off her coat and lay back on its satin lining. She looked pointedly at the priest.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s been a long night, hasn’t it? I’ll let you get some rest.”

  Richard hurried out of the room. Miranda rolled over. The clock beside the bed read 12:15.

  The night was still young. She sat up and pulled the rhinestone necklace out of her coat pocket and reaffixed it to her head.

  *

  Richard came into his study to find Jimmy staring into the fireplace. All that remained from the fire earlier in the evening were hot coals, glowing orange in the darkness. Jimmy leaned over, a poker in his hand, sifting through the ashes.

  Richard was sure Jimmy didn’t see him standing there, in the doorway, loaded down with sheets, pillows, and blankets. And he wanted to keep his presence unknown for a few minutes longer. A few minutes to study the boy, admire the strong curve of his spine beneath the T-shirt he wore, to look at the young face in profile, the cheeks reddened by warmth from the fire’s dying embers, his hair, tousled, looking dark, except for in front, where it was lit by the coals.

  He longed to go over and sit by Jimmy, to put his arm around him, let him know that he saw something special in the boy and that his feelings for him were so much more than sexual.

  But Richard knew the boy would never understand. Not when all he’d known from men like himself had been sex. And Richard knew too that his own desires were rooted in more than just concern for the boy. There was a sick feeling of desire gnawing at the base of his gut, making him feel queasy and elated, both at the same time. If only I could cancel out the sexual feelings, I could really help that boy, help him become a good man, take him down a different path.

  Maybe someday, Richard hoped, maybe someday, he’d understand.

  And what would come with that understanding? What would come with added intimacy?

  Richard hurried into the room and dr
opped the bedding on the couch. “I’m sure you’ll be comfortable in here, Jimmy. Good night.”

  Richard could feel the boy’s eyes on him as he walked from the room and closed the door behind him. He started away, then went back and called through the door, “Jimmy, if you need privacy, you can lock this door. Just turn the bolt.”

  Chapter 19

  None of his brilliant scams had worked. Even posing as a pickpocket’s victim looking for cab fare hadn’t earned him a sympathetic audience. His other idea was even more of a farce. Avery sighed and huddled down under the pile of blankets and coats, pulling a piece of foam rubber under his head for a pillow. He had stoked up a fire in the garbage can near the hearth, trying to add some sort of glow and a little warmth to the room, so he could sleep. In matters of personal comfort, Avery reasoned, we do not worry about economy. Especially when there’s no one else here to bitch or prophesy about fire hazards. His Public Enemy tape poured out, muffled and low, accompanying him as he crawled under the bedding.

  He had forty bucks in his jeans pocket. He was ashamed because he thought sure that going out on Chicago’s streets posing as a teenage minister would find him at least a few contributions for his Church of the Disenfranchised. But he saw the immediate looks of distaste he got because of his weight and his acne and knew in his heart sooner than in his mind that this scheme held no promise.

  So he found a brick, hit an old lady over the head on Sheridan Road, and made off with her purse. After removing the cash, he had taken the purse and dropped it in a mailbox, with the hope that the U.S. Postal Service would at least make half right his transgression. The old lady was dazed by the blow, but he had watched from her building’s shrubbery to make sure she got inside.

  He had thought then of going to the doorman a little later with the purse, claiming he had found it outside. Because of his weight, he knew no one would suspect him and the old lady might give him a reward.