A Hard Place: A Chauncey Means Novel

by Sean Lynch

  “So how does the Romeo pimp thing work? It seems like a big stretch from getting romanced by a wanna-be Don Juan to prostituting yourself to strangers for money?”

  “It’s not a stretch, and it doesn’t happen by accident. It’s a specific five-step process,” I said. “Pimps have been using it since Christ was a corporal. And it’s as systematic and methodical as the path you took to get your college degree.”

  “A five step process? To turn a little girl into a hooker? You make it sound so clinical.”

  “In a way it is,” I agreed. “There’s big money in the world’s second-oldest profession. A pimp is no different than a college professor, a dentist, or the mechanic who repairs your car. To be successful, they have to be good at what they do. They cultivate techniques that are effective at turning young girls out. Some of the pimps I’ve known have it down to a science.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this stuff.”

  “It used to be my job.”

  “So what are the five steps?”

  “The first step is recruitment. A young Casanova goes into the field and looks for girls who fit the profile.”

  “At the school, or the mall; like you said,” Karen offered.

  “Exactly. He’s got a car, and money, and usually access to liquor and drugs. He’s searching for a particular type of mark; young girls who are naïve, pretty, have low self-esteem, and little or no parental supervision. He knows these girls are vulnerable to his directed attention.”

  “I see a lot of young guys like that at school,” she said. “They act like caricatures of what they think men should be. Most of them look ridiculous.”

  “To you and me. To some of these girls they’re Prince Charming.”

  “So what does this Romeo Pimp do once he finds an appropriate girl to target?”

  “He swoops in,” I said. “That’s the second step; seduction. Once he’s identified a recruit, he comes on like Justin Bieber. Convinces the girl he loves her. Flowers, candy, clothes; the whole nine yards. Breaks her in sexually; in many cases the girl loses her virginity to the Romeo pimp because she ‘loves’ him. He introduces her to alcohol and drugs.”

  “I think I’m beginning to see where this is going,” Karen said.

  “It only gets worse. The next step is isolation. The new ‘boyfriend’ soon becomes very possessive. He cuts her off from friends or family. Begins to control every facet of their relationship and her life. ‘If you really loved me you wouldn’t need those other people,’ kind of a thing. If he hasn’t already, this is the time when the Romeo pimp transitions her from booze and weed to hard drugs like coke, meth, or heroin.”

  “The more you tell me,” Karen said around a bite of crouton, “the more I’m visualizing some of the young girls at the school where I teach. They’re exactly the type of susceptible kid you’re describing.”

  “The fourth step is where things take a nasty turn,” I went on. “This step is coercion. The boyfriend may demand the girl prove her love by having sex with one of his friends. Or he gets her loaded and hosts a gang-bang; four or five of his buddies show up and pull a train on the girl. And in the age of cellular phones, there are plenty of pictures and video to document the event. If the girl resists, she’s beaten down, threatened with release of the video to her family or friends, or both. This process may be repeated several times over a period of a few days. The end result is that the girl is completely broken. She now feels trapped. She’s also well on the way to being addicted, if not hooked already, on hard drugs.”

  “It’s so calculated,” Karen said. “And cruel.”

  “It’s designed to be efficient; the cruelty is a necessary by-product. This fourth step, coercion, is where the greatest likelihood of suicide exists. Remember, to these Romeo pimps these girls aren’t human beings; they’re a commodity. By now they’re virtually owned by their pimp.”

  “Can’t these girls get help? Call the police?”

  “That’s where the fifth step comes into play; violence. This step is where the Romeo pimp transitions into what’s known as a gorilla pimp.”

  “A gorilla pimp?”

  “Opposite of a Romeo pimp. Romeo pimps turn out their victims through charm and seduction. Gorilla pimps use brute force. This is where the girl gets to witness another girl getting gang-raped, tortured, disfigured, beaten half to death, or in some cases actually murdered. Once the girl is exposed to the fifth step, in most cases, they believe they are now officially beyond hope or help. They succumb to the life and are consumed by it.”

  Karen shook her head. “I still don’t understand why these girls don’t go to the authorities; report these Romeo or gorilla pimps to the cops?”

  “You overestimate their position. Imagine you’re a fifteen-year-old girl. You’ve been dating an eighteen or nineteen-year-old guy who you are completely in love with. The first time you’ve had sex, and the first time you’ve done booze, marijuana, meth, or cocaine, is with him. Your dependence on the drugs has grown along with your emotional attachment to him. Now he’s got pictures of your sexual and drug escapades on his phone; pictures you might have willingly posed for because you’re young, in love, and he’s your boyfriend.”

  “I’m following you so far. Go on.”

  “Next thing you know he’s slapping you around. Threatening to post the pictures on the internet if you don’t start turning tricks. And denying you the drugs you now need. You’re still in love, and still want to be with him, but you’re confused. So you get loaded and do it; just once, to please him. He wants you to do it again. You say no. He and his pals beat and gang rape you. In an age when everybody and their dog has a cell phone, this is recorded. When they’re done, he tells you if you don’t turn more tricks, he’s going to throw acid in your mom’s face. Or your face. After what you’ve been through, you believe him. Going to the cops isn’t even an option.”

  “I see what you mean,” she said. “It’s deliberate, calculated, enslavement.”

  “That’s exactly what it is. And there’s nothing new about it either; pimps have been turning women out with these techniques since the Flintstones.”

  “It sounds like the fourth stage, coercion, and the fifth stage, violence, are the worst?”

  “All the stages are bad if you think about how premeditated the process is. Sometimes by the fourth stage, and certainly by the fifth stage, if the pimp has done his job right, the girls become convinced they are worthless. They accept the pimp has total control over their life or death. To make it worse, the pimp is the only source of the drugs they need to feed their created addiction. But you’re right; it’s not until the fourth or fifth stages that the pimp can turn her out and start getting a return on his investment.”

  “That’s when he puts her out on the street? On the Track?”

  “Not at first,” I said. “He might make her an escort first.”

  “I thought a hooker and an escort were the same thing?”

  “Not really. There’s a difference between a girl walking the street and an escort. To make his bitch an escort, the pimp dolls her up with make-up and a hairdo, takes a lingerie photo, and posts an advertisement on the internet.”

  “I’ve heard of those kinds of ads,” Karen said. “Aren’t they usually in the personal section of the classifieds?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But there are also specific websites that cater to Johns seeking escort services. An escort is a type of prostitute, but like I said, an escort is not a streetwalker; not yet. That comes later. Not surprisingly, these advertisements falsely represent the girl’s age.”

  “But the Johns know their age, I’ll bet,” she said. “That’s what they’re paying for; underage girls.”

  “You’re catching on. The younger the girl, the higher the price.”

  “How do they transact the actual business?”

  “The Johns respond to the ads and contact the pimp via a pre-paid, and consequently untraceable, cellular phone number. The pimp th
en drives the girl to meet the Johns, usually at no-tell motels located on their turf, or at the John’s home. When the girls are newly turned out, and the drugs and lifestyle haven’t eroded them too badly, a pimp can make a lot of money each night from an escort bitch. Easily several thousand-dollars profit over the few hundred dollars he has to spend on food and drugs to keep her working. When the girl is fresh, she can command several hundred dollars per trick; sometimes as much as a thousand or more per John for the night. But as the life wears on them, the girls get downgraded.”

  “Like any commodity,” she said. “Their value decreases over time and with use. It’s like mileage on a car.”

  “Right. Soon the pimp is no longer driving the girl to offices and hotels to bang clients solicited through classified ads for several hundred bucks a pop. Once she gets haggard, and her shine is worn off, her next stop is the Track. There she’s walking the cold streets of Oakland for ten-to-fifty bucks per trick, and a helluva lot more of them to earn her daily dose of dope.”

  “The pimp sounds like a rancher,” Karen said. “He cultivates a herd of sex slaves like a rancher cultivates livestock.”

  “That’s an accurate analogy,” I said. “Except I like beef, so I innately like ranchers.”

  “I take it you don’t like pimps?” Her eyes met mine again.

  “Pimps are the lowest form of life crawling the earth. They are the modern day equivalent of slave-traders, as you so eloquently pointed out. I wouldn’t piss on a pimp if he was on fire.”

  “You said the guy you met today was possibly Belicia’s pimp, or working for his pimp; what’s the difference?”

  “It’s like the rancher in your analogy; some ranchers are small-time, and have a smaller herd. Some ranchers have huge herds, and rule the range; these guys are cattle barons. Same goes for pimps. Some of these big-time players have squads of Romeo pimps working for them, constantly out scanning for young, vulnerable girls to replenish the herd. I don’t know if the little shitstain I met today is a freelancer, and turning Belicia out for himself, or punching a clock for a bigger player. If I had to bet, I’d wager he was a soldier working for somebody else.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He had a lot of cash. He drove a decent car. His piece was a Taurus, which is solid hardware, not the usual cast-zinc jam-o-matic most of these aspiring pistol-jockeys pack. When I took Belicia’s phone, and Dave took his, he went apeshit in the back of the patrol car. Somebody is going to be pissed at him for getting arrested, and I don’t think it’s going to be his mom.”

  “So you’re going after the bigger pimp? This Romeo pimp’s boss?”

  “Roger that,” I said.

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Not for someone as pure of heart and stout of limb as me,” I said.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Do you carry a gun?”

  “How’s your salad?” I asked.

  Chapter 14

  I slept in late on Friday morning. I was anticipating a late Friday night.

  I ended my dinner with Karen Pearson early, but not by choice. By the time we finished our entrees her eyelids were drooping and she begged off the rest of the evening. She apologized profusely for what she claimed was her poor company due to fatigue. I assured her that her company was excellent. I was afraid it was my personality that sent her packing.

  She gave me a hug, a mischievous wink, and when I walked her to her car she promised to make it up to me. I liked the sound of that. We agreed to see each other again on Saturday night.

  In the morning I skipped the roadwork and opted instead for a lengthy jump-rope session, a dance with the heavy bag, and pushing around some weights. Then I showered and had a banana and bagel. Enough ‘me’ time; time to work.

  Sergeant Matt Nguyen answered his cell phone on the second ring.

  “This is Sergeant Nguyen,” his voice crackled over the phone. I could tell by the background noise he was driving.

  “Matt, this is Chance. You alone?”

  “Yeah, I can talk. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a couple of questions I was hoping you could answer for me. Also, I need a favor.”

  There was a long pause. Finally, Matt said, “What do you want?”

  “Who runs the table at 42nd and International?”

  “How the hell would I know who sells dope and bitches on that part of the Track? I work homicide, remember? I don’t work narcotics or vice.”

  “It’s all connected, Matt; you know that. How many homicides occur on the Track aren’t related to the drug or pussy trade?”

  “That’s not the point,” he said. I could hear the exasperation in his tone. “There’re so many gangsters, pimps, and dope dealers on the Track you’d need a catalog to list them all. I have no idea who rules which particular corner.”

  “You’re the lead detective on a homicide which occurred on that corner, Matt. I’d think you might want to find out.”

  “I already told you I don’t know,” he said, with too much spite.

  “Who does?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me; who does know?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Matt said. “You still working that dead whore?”

  “I am. Her name was Marisol Hernandez, remember? You’re supposed to be investigating her murder.”

  “You reminded me already. I still don’t see why you need to know who owns 42nd and International,” he said. “You aren’t thinking of going out there, are you?”

  “I told you I was working the case,” I said. “42nd and International Boulevard is where Marisol got snuffed. Where else am I supposed to look for her killer? Disneyland?”

  “You’d better re-think that strategy, Chance. You poke your nose around that part of the Track you’re going to end up in my ‘To Do’ basket.”

  “If I get aced will you promise to work harder on finding my killer than you are on Marisol’s?”

  “I’m not kidding,” he continued. “You ain’t a cop anymore; you don’t have back-up. The Track is no place to fly solo unless you’re buying drugs or pussy, even for a certified tough guy like you. You want to get whacked, that’s where it’ll go down. Some of the animals in that part of the jungle don’t fuck around.”

  “I thought you didn’t know who runs that corner?” I said.

  “I don’t. I was only looking out for your well-being.”

  “Thanks for the concern. I’ll be sure to wear sunscreen. Are you going to help me or not?”

  “It’s your funeral; don’t say I didn’t warn you. There’s a guy in vice I could ask. He might know who’s who in the zoo out on that part of the Track. I’ll check in with him and get back to you in a few days.”

  “A few days? I was planning on going out there tonight.”

  “It’s Friday, Chance. I’m not even sure this guy works today. It’s the best I can do.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said. “Did you get an opportunity to look at the autopsy report before you gave it to me?”

  “I’m three weeks backed up on paperwork already,” Matt said. “I work homicide in Oakland, not Des Moines. No, I haven’t had a chance to read it.”

  “You should take a look at it,” I told him. “You might find it interesting.”

  “An autopsy report on a whore who got smoked on the Track is not interesting, Chance. It’s routine; I read that kind of shit all day. The only way I’d be interested in the autopsy report is if the pathologist found the Hope Diamond stuffed in Marisol Hernandez’s snatch.”

  “I don’t think she was a whore, Matt.”

  “You don’t think she was a whore, huh? She was only out walking the Track on a Friday night dressed like Katy Fucking Perry because she was collecting for UNICEF? Wake up, Chance; you didn’t used to be so naive.”

  “Read the autopsy report.”

  “Fuck you. I’ve got better things to do than pick up your breadcrumbs.”

  “Sounds like somebody had the prize stole
n out of his breakfast cereal this morning,” I said. “You okay, Matt? You need to talk?”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped, confirming he wasn’t. “Something else I can do for you, Buddy?”

  “One more thing,” I told him, ignoring the ‘buddy’ jab. “If I run into trouble out on the Track, I may need you to vouch for me. I don’t want the Oakland cops to mistake me for a John and pick me up for soliciting.”

  “What exactly are you planning to do?” Matt asked.

  “Get some answers,” I said. “So long Matt. I look forward to hearing what you get from your vice contact.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” he grumbled and hung up.

  Matt didn’t sound happy, and even less happy to speak with me. Maybe things were closing in on him at work? Maybe things were rough on the home front? Maybe he was still pining for his lost stripper? Maybe he was still getting squeezed by his gambling debts? Maybe somebody really did steal the prize from his cereal? Perhaps all of the above.

  In any case, I wasn’t going to wait around for what Matt Nguyen could dribble my way. I’d been dipping my toe around the edge of this investigation for too long already. It was time to get wet.

  I’d spoken to Reyna, to Marisol’s biological mother, and had an encounter with her sister Belicia. I’d read what little the Oakland police investigation revealed. Everything I’d uncovered so far about Marisol’s death raised more questions than answers.

  I was a cop for over fifteen years, and a detective for more than a few of those. I know murder cases aren’t solved by donning a deerstalker’s cap and peering through a magnifying lens at the moss on rocks. You get answers by asking people questions. A lot of the time, the people who have the answers don’t want to talk.

  You have to make them.

  Chapter 15

  “Hey cowboy, you lookin’ for a date?”

  “I’m sure lonely,” I told her. Not entirely a lie.

  “I’ll take you around-the-world for two-hundred,” she said, getting right to it. I didn’t blame her; it was cold outside.