by Sean Lynch
January had become February in Oakland, but the corner of 42nd Avenue and International Boulevard had gotten no warmer. It was somewhere around forty degrees Fahrenheit on a cloudless Friday night, and I could see the breath of the B-girls as they strolled the pavement.
The whore who approached my truck was an African-American girl about twenty years old, with what looked like a good figure and large crooked teeth. Her eyes were yellow, and I couldn’t tell if her shivering was from the cold or if she needed a fix. Probably both. She was wearing a light brown wig with blond highlights, knee-high boots, and had her obligatory purse slung over one shoulder. Her ample breasts spilled over the parapet of her low-cut, body-hugging shirt.
“Two hundred is a little rich for my taste,” I told her, knowing she hadn’t seen two-hundred dollars per trick in a long time. Still, you can’t blame a girl for trying.
“I’ll go half-and-half for a hundred,” she said. “Do you up right.”
“I’m a long way from payday,” I said. “What else can you do for me?”
“Depends on how much you got,” she said with a shaky smile. “Go inside the burger joint and put two Jacksons in the hands of the big dude in the white hat. I’ll meet you out back in two minutes. And turn up the heater, Honey; I’m freezin’ my motherfuckin’ ass off.”
I gave her a wink and drove into the Burger King parking lot. She began walking through the vacant auto parts store lot to the rear of the fast food restaurant. I knew exactly what she was doing; she was taking chances.
Forty bucks is about the going rate for oral sex, the most common act a street whore performs. By agreeing quickly to that fee without negotiation, she was putting money into her pimp’s pocket and keeping him off her back. But she planned to try and talk me into intercourse, or more, and pocket the difference herself. ‘Around-the-world’ is street lingo for oral, vaginal, and anal intercourse. ‘Half-and-half’ is oral and vaginal. I paid her for oral only. Skimming from your pimp isn’t the smartest or healthiest play a B-girl can make. But then, street whores aren’t necessarily known for making prudent choices.
I parked my truck and went into the Burger King. Nobody paid me any heed; I’d planned it that way.
I was wearing a wool stocking cap over a large denim coat which covered a zippered hoodie. Tattered cargo trousers over an old pair of combat boots finished the ensemble. I’d taken care not to shave. Beneath the day-laborer façade, hidden from view, was my knife, guns, spare ammo, a flashlight, and the bullet-resistant vest I’d managed to keep from my days on the job. My ballistic vest was rated IIIA by the National Institute of Justice, which meant it was supposed to stop a .44 Magnum and all lesser threats. I was hoping to take the manufacturer’s word for it.
The Burger King’s dining area wasn’t crowded, but there were enough patrons to let me blend in. Especially in Oakland. It was a haggard crowd. You might get the same whopper and fries at the Burger King on 42nd and International Boulevard as you do at the Burger King in Beverly Hills, but rest assured, your dining experience isn’t going to be identical.
At one of the booths facing the street sat a couple of men in their twenties. One was big African-American, and he wore a hoodie under an Oakland Raiders warm-up. He had a very dark complexion and sported his hair in dreads under a pristine-white baseball cap. His partner was a much smaller Hispanic man, but wore even bulkier clothes. I assumed this dude was the armory. Maybe the pharmacy, too. He had an Oakland Raiders beanie-cap, and furtive eyes which picked me up the instant I came in. Both of the bigger man’s thumbs were working his cellular device.
I waited in line with the hungry illegal immigrants, street urchins, and homeless. When it was my turn I ordered a large coffee. I walked past the booth and set two folded twenties on the table and kept walking. Neither men looked directly at me, but the smaller guy’s eyes never stopped tracking my movement. One of the big man’s hands smoothly scooped up the bills and deposited them inside a pocket. His focus never left his texting.
I returned to my truck and fired it up, turning the heater to maximum. By the time I drove to the rear of the lot the hooker with the brown wig was waiting with her arms folded. Whether it was impatience or the cold, I didn’t know.
She got into the passenger seat and closed the door as I pulled away. I handed her the coffee.
“You look like you could use some warming up,” I said.
“Thanks, Sugar,” she said, accepting the coffee. “But this don’t get you anything extra. Drive down the street and pull in behind any of the parked cars.” She warmed her hands around the coffee cup and sipped some of the hot fluid. A strong odor of cigarettes and an annoying fruity perfume emanated from her, magnified inside the confines of my truck’s cabin.
I complied with her direction. I headed north on 42nd about three-quarters of the block and parked behind another car already parked on the street. I killed the lights but left the engine running to keep the heater going. I left the windows rolled down.
“So how much you got?” she asked.
I turned sideways in the seat to face her. I held up two crisp one-hundred dollar bills for her appraisal. Her eyebrows raised.
“I thought you was tapped out, Honey,” she said. “What I gotta do?”
“Talk to me,” I said. Her eyebrows dropped and her eyes narrowed.
“If you a cop, motherfucker, you entrapped me! I didn’t do nuthin’ but-”
“Relax,” I cut her off. “I’m not a cop.”
“You some kind of weirdo? Cause if you hurt me, them boys gonna come down on you.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said. “Like I told you, I only want to talk. That’s all.”
“What you want to talk about?” she asked warily. “You one of those dudes likes to hear me tell you about it? The fuckin’ and suckin’? Talk dirty to you?”
“Not that kind of talk,” I said. “I want to talk about a B-girl who got killed on your corner a little more than three weeks ago. Mexican kid. She was shot near where I met you, and at about this time of night.”
The whore’s eyes got wide. Her entire body tensed up; this time, I was sure it wasn’t the cold. She unconsciously leaned away from me.
“I don’t know nuthin’ about that,” she said. “Nuthin’ at all. You talkin’ to the wrong girl, Mister. I got nuthin’ to say.”
“But you know about it, don’t you? You were working that night?”
“I told you; I got nuthin’ to say.”
“Did you see it go down?” I pressed her. She moved as far from me as the truck’s interior would let her.
“Mister, I don’t know who the fuck you are, and what kind of game you be playin?’ I told you, I don’t know nuthin’ about no killin.’ You want to get fucked up? Keep askin’ that kind of question ‘round here. You will damn sure get fucked up.”
I slowly reached over and put one of the Franklins into her cleavage. The other I continued to hold up for her to see.
She gave me a hard stare. “I’m supposed to be sucking your dick. That’s what you paid for. That trick don’t take long. I ain’t back on my corner in ten minutes, they come lookin’ for me. Then we both get fucked up.”
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Holly,” she said. I was certain it was an alias, but I couldn’t help thinking of the movie ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’ Audrey Hepburn she wasn’t.
“Listen, Holly; I’m not trying to give you a hard time. All I want is some information. Who runs you? Who owns this this part of the Track? Whose stable are you in?”
“You gonna get me killed,” she said. “I’m getting’ the fuck outta here.” She reached for the door handle. I reached for her.
I grabbed her upper arm in my right fist and squeezed, hard. She winced and gasped.
“Holly, I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if I have to. And if you try to throw that coffee in my face, which you’re thinking about doing right now, I will snap your arm like a stalk of celery. Toss th
e coffee out the window.”
Holly’s face became a mixture of hatred and fear. It was probably an expression she wore regularly, given her lifestyle. She threw out the coffee cup. I generally don’t like to strew trash, but compared to some of the other things I’d done in Oakland I could live with littering.
“I’m trying to be a nice guy,” I said. “I bought you coffee. I paid you a hundred dollars to listen to your lies. I’m not even going to ask you again if you witnessed the killing, because I know you did. But you are going to tell me what I want to know.”
Holly glared at me some more.
“All I want is a name. Nobody will know you gave it to me. I could probably get it from somebody else, but I’m going to get it from you.”
“Fuck you. I ain’t giving you shit.”
“Fair enough, Holly. Then we sit here and wait until your handlers come looking for you. They watched you get into my truck. No doubt they know where your preferred spot is. We won’t be hard to find. That’s when I tell them you’re holding out. I’ll bet they’ll be real interested. Pimps love it when their whores skim.”
Holly withered. I let go of her arm.
“Come on, Mister. Don’t do that. They will fuck me up.”
“All I want is a name.”
“That’s all? And you swear nobody’s gonna know you got it from me?”
“No one will know.” I held up the Franklin again.
She snatched the bill from my hand.
“DeShawn. DeShawn Bullock. Shit; everybody knows he owns this part of Oak-Town. You fool enough to pay two-hundred dollars for that, I’ll damn sure take your money.”
“He have a street name?”
She nodded. “He goes by ‘Drop-Dead’ on the street. Drop-Dead Bullock.”
“You mean like, ‘drop-dead’ gorgeous?” I asked.
“I mean like, ‘drop-you-motherfuckin’-dead,’” she said.
“How did he earn that moniker?”
“By ghostin’ dumb-ass white boys who ask stupid questions,” she said. “Can I go know?”
“Yeah, you can go. I’ll take you back.”
“Don’t,” she insisted. “I’ll walk. I don’t want to be seen with you no more.” She got out of my truck and began trudging back to her duty station on the Track.
I drove east on International Boulevard and added Holly to the growing number of women who’ve decided they don’t want to be seen with me. I was beginning to get depressed with the size of the list when the flashing blue and white lights of a police sedan lit up my rear-view mirror. It was a slick-top; no overhead police lights. The lights emanated from the car’s grill.
I pulled over and parked at the curb. The police car, an all-black, unmarked, Ford Crown Victoria, pulled in and stopped a couple of car-lengths behind my truck. I closed my right eye to preserve my night vision before the expected spotlight flooded my side and rear-view mirrors. Can’t beat army training. I saw the silhouettes of two people emerge from the police sedan, one on each side, and approach my vehicle. I put both hands on the steering wheel, in plain view, and waited.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” a voice commanded. I detected the faintest hint of a Spanish accent. The voice’s owner materialized at my driver’s door. His partner was on the curb opposite him. His right hand was on his holstered pistol, and his left was directing a flashlight beam into my truck’s interior.
“Good evening, Officers,” I said.
“What are you doing out here?” the voice at my driver’s door demanded.
“What was I pulled over for?” I asked.
“I’ll ask the questions, dickhead. Step out of the car.”
“I’m lawfully armed,” I said. “I don’t want to get shot by your trigger-happy partner. I’m wearing my piece over my right hip. Still want me to step out?”
As soon as I said I was armed, the officer on the curb side of my truck drew his pistol and pointed it at me. He was smart enough to maintain an angle that kept his gun’s muzzle on me and his brother officer out of his line of fire.
“Why are you armed?”
“Last I checked, this was Oakland,” I said. “Same reason you’re armed.”
“A wise-ass, huh?”
“If you’re going to call me a dickhead, I might as well earn the title. You want to see my driver’s license, it’s in my wallet. I’ve also got a retired peace officer’s identification and a private investigator’s license.”
“Step out of the car; nice and slow. Keep your hands above your elbows.”
The officer on my side opened the driver’s door from the outside. I stepped out, keeping my hands where I was told. I was now out of the blinding glare of the spotlights and could see clearly. I opened my right eye and assessed the situation.
“Let me see your I.D.,” the cop told me. I turned to face him. He was a Hispanic man about my height and weight, and maybe five years older than me. He was built like a weightlifter who never did any cardio. He had a closely-cropped haircut with sideburns and a goatee, and wore a small gold ring in his left ear to match the gold chain around his neck. He was dressed in the standard garb of the Oakland Police Department’s Special Duty Unit; boots and jeans, topped off by a blue nylon windbreaker under a tactical vest. His pistol, a standard OPD issue Glock model 22, was strapped to his thigh in a low-slung rig common with S.W.A.T. and tactical cops. On the sleeves of his jacket were sergeant’s stripes. The nametag on his vest read, QUINTANA.
I gingerly withdrew my wallet and handed it to Sergeant Quintana. He opened it, thumbing over the wad of cash, and pulled out my license from the translucent frame.
“Is your name really Chauncey?” he asked, studying the license. I get asked that a lot.
“Just like it reads,” I told him. He pulled out my ‘Retired’ police I.D. next, and then the laminated copy of my private investigator’s license. He looked them over for a moment, and then put all three I.D.’s back in my wallet. He put my wallet in his belt.
“I’ll ask you again,” Quintana said. “What are you doing out here?”
“Actually,” I told him, “I was conducting an investigation.”
“Who the hell would hire you to conduct a private investigation out here?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” I said. “Confidential; you understand.”
“You hear that, Bo?” Quintana remarked to his partner. “He was out here investigating.”
“Investigating the inside of somebody’s mouth with his dick, more like it,” Bo said.
Bo was a Caucasian cop a full head taller than me. He was giant. He had a shaved head, a bushy Fu Manchu, and his shoulders and biceps bulged under his jacket. A large wad of tobacco distended his lower lip. The nametag on his tactical vest read BOLSEN.
“You were sitting in a parked car on the Track at night with a known prostitute. Is getting a blowjob how you normally conduct your investigations?” Quintana asked.
“You know Sergeant Matt Nguyen?” I said. “Works homicide in Major Crimes Section One?”
“I know who he is,” he said.
“He can vouch for me. I spoke to him earlier today about what I was going to be doing on the Track tonight. And for the record, I wasn’t soliciting a prostitute.”
“Of course not,” he smirked. “You’re conducting a confidential investigation. With a wallet full of cash and a whore in your car.”
“Call Matt. He’ll explain everything.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” he said. “I’m not in the habit of bothering off-duty detectives on late Friday nights with excuses from Johns who get caught with their pants down. How about instead of calling Matt I take you downtown and book you for soliciting? Then you can call anybody you want with one of your three free phone calls.”
I was tired of this. “Do whatever you have to do, Sergeant,” I said. “You’ll get no beef from me. But I wasn’t soliciting and I can prove it. Doesn’t matter to me if I prove it now or in court later. You’re doing the
paperwork, not me.”
Quintana took out my wallet and tapped it against his palm, biting his lip. “Watch him, will you Bo?” he said. Then he walked away from me to the sidewalk, dialing one of his cell phones. Like most cops, Quintana used two cellular phones; one issued by the department for official business, and the other his personally owned phone.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Bo said, approaching and looming over me.
“I can’t,” I told him. “You’ve already got that angle covered.”
“Damn right I do,” Bo said, proving my point.
“Can I put my arms down?”
“No.”
Quintana spoke on the phone for a couple of minutes. He was too far away for me to hear the conversation. Bo scowled. My arms ached.
Eventually Quintana hung up and returned. “You can put your arms down,” he said. “You got lucky; Matt answered his phone. He verified your story.”
“Thank you, Matt,” I exhaled.
I lowered my arms, shaking my wrists to restore the blood flow. Bo took a step back but kept the scowl. Quintana handed me my wallet.
“No hard feelings,” he said. “We play rough out here. It’s how you stay alive.”
“No explanation necessary,” I said. “Doing your job. In your shoes, I would think I was up to no good, too. I’m sorry to waste your time, Sergeant Quintana.”
“My name’s Alvero,” he said, extending his hand. “People call me Big Al.”
I took it and shook it. “We both have nicknames,” I said. “My friends call me Chance.”
“You plan on being out here much longer, Chance?” he asked.
“Not tonight. I’ve had enough fun for one evening. But if I come back, is there a number I can call to give you the head’s up? As much as I enjoyed it, I don’t want to repeat this dance, and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
Quintana gave me his card, which had his office and departmental cellular phone numbers on it. His title was listed as the supervisor of the Oakland Police Department’s Vice and Child Exploitation Unit. I gave him one of mine.
“You got a cell phone number?” he asked.
“Nope. I despise the infernal things.”