by Sean Lynch
Belicia was kneeling only a few feet away. Her eyes were wide. I realized for the first time she was loaded. Her pupils were dilated and she had a faraway look.
“I d-didn’t shoot the b-bitch,” Bullock sputtered, gagging on his own fluids.
“I know you didn’t,” I said, glancing at Belicia. “But you own it just the same. You helped put her sister on the street.”
“F-fucking wh-whore,” he spat.
“No, she wasn’t,” I said.
I fired. Belicia twitched. I stood up.
“Get your clothes on,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
A numb Belicia began picking up remnants of clothing scattered around the room and putting them on. I retrieved my cellular phone from the rear patio entrance and turned it back to telephone mode. Then I took out the phone I’d taken from Toby Soares. I wiped the phone as best I could with my handkerchief, then picked up the remainder of Drop-Dead Bullock’s beer and poured it all over the phone. The SIM card would be fine. I lifted one of Bullock’s trouser legs and put the phone in his sock. Anybody searching the house after we left wouldn’t find it, but the coroner’s deputies would.
In Bullock’s sock I found over sixty-four hundred dollars in cash, all in one-hundred dollar denominations. I checked the rest of him. In his bulging hip-pocket I found another three-thousand in twenties. I pocketed the cash. Drop-Dead sure as hell wasn’t going to be spending it, and being found with that much cash would take robbery off the table as a motive, which I didn’t want.
Belicia was almost dressed. She was wearing a skirt, the suede boots I’d seen in her closet, and a loose sweater with no bra. I checked her purse to ensure there wasn’t another cellular phone on her.
“Come on,” I said, taking her arm. She let me lead her. As we exited through the rear patio door, I left one of the Glocks I took from Toby and Chingo on each of the bodies of Bolson and Bullock.
We walked across the yard to the rear fence. I could hear sirens. I wasn’t too worried; it was Oakland.
“I’m going to boost you over the fence,” I told Belicia. “If you make any sound, or try to run, I will knock you out and carry you. Do you understand?”
She nodded. I lifted her up and over the fence. Then I hopped over it myself. Once in the backyard on Hansom Drive, I took Belicia’s arm again and guided her across the well-manicured lawn and along the side of the house. We emerged through the gate and strode purposefully to my car. No one challenged us.
I already had the car keys in my hand. Within seconds we were in the Ford and driving away. Instead of going back down Keller Avenue, the way I’d come in, I took Skyline Boulevard. From there I connected to the MacArthur Freeway.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Belicia asked.
“I’m taking you to your grandmother.”
“I don’t want to go back there.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
I didn’t mean to snap at her, but I was in a foul mood, and wasn’t feeling particularly conciliatory towards Belicia Hernandez. It had been a helluva day. I had to kill four men who tried to kill me; six within the past seventy-two hours. And a chance at a real romance with a gal I genuinely liked was dashed by the two creeps who tried to end our lives on Lake Chabot Road. If that won’t kill a relationship before it starts, I don’t know what will.
If that wasn’t enough, the fourteen-year-old kid sitting next to me, who I was supposed to be rescuing from enslavement as a B-girl, had set me up for a turkey-shoot where I the gobbler-of-honor.
I willed myself to calm down. None of this was Belicia’s fault. I had to remember she was the victim; she was only a kid. She’d been targeted, romanced, addicted, beat-down, and turned out as methodically as Arabian slave traders did during the Age of the Ottoman Empire. All cops know there is really no such thing as a child prostitute. The term ‘child prostitute’ is a misnomer; underage children can’t lawfully consent to sex, much less to prostitution.
“They made me do it,” she said dully. “They made me call you.”
“I know.”
“They made me do a lot of things,” she said.
“I know,” I said again.
“It’s my fault Marisol is dead,” she said matter-of-factly.
“No Belicia, it’s not.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” she said, looking out the window.
“You’d be surprised what I know.”
“Like what?” she asked, still without emotion.
“Like how meeting Efren Campos at your sister Marisol’s Quinceanera last November wasn’t a coincidence,” I told her. “You were targeted.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I’ve seen guys like Efren Campos before. He and a bunch of guys his age, probably his pals, work at the Yucatan restaurants in Oakland, Alameda, and San Leandro. But what they really do is act as Romeo pimps. They’re sent to scout for young girls at the social events held at the different Yucatan restaurants.”
“I thought he loved me,” she said. “Efren was really cool, at first. He had a car, and his own apartment. He always had money. He bought me stuff. He took me places. I didn’t even have to sneak out to see him. Grandma is gone overnight a lot of the time, in San Francisco, where she works for some fancy lawyer. Marisol was supposed to be in charge of me when Grandma is gone. But she’s only a year older, so I didn’t listen to her.” She blinked. “I should have.”
When Belicia began speaking of Marisol a tear began to form in the corner of each eye.
“Was Efren your first?” I asked.
“Sure, I let him pop my cherry. I loved him.”
“You ever smoke weed before him?”
“No. I started smoking weed right after we started doing it. He said it would make the sex better.”
“How about the harder stuff?”
She nodded. “It started with sniffing a line of coke once in a while when we were drinking and doing sex stuff. Then he showed me how to smoke it. I started smoking cigarettes to cover the smell.”
“Did your grandmother or Marisol suspect anything?”
“Grandma didn’t, but Marisol did. She used to yell at me and tell me Efren was a loser. That he was using me.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“I told Marisol she didn’t know what she was talking about. I told her Efren loved me.”
“Did he?”
“No,” she said. “I found out Marisol was right.”
“How?”
“One night, we were hanging out at his place and his uncle showed up unexpected. He had his own key to Efren’s apartment and he walked right in. I was in bed, and Efren didn’t say anything. He just got up and went into the kitchen.”
“Had you ever met Efren’s uncle before?”
“At the Yucatan on youth nights. He works at the bar.”
Belicia’s tears began to flow a little harder, but her tone remained unshaken. She continued to stare out the window as I merged onto Interstate 80.
“He jumped on top of me and beat the shit out of me. Then he fucked me. I fought back, but he beat me harder. I called out to Efren, but he sat in the kitchen smoking cigarettes and laughing the whole time.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said. Belicia went on.
“When he was done he took my clothes. Efren’s uncle said if I told anybody what happened he would fuck Marisol and kill Grandma. He showed me a picture of Marisol he had on his phone; he must have taken it at her Quinceanera. Then he left. That’s when Efren started showing me the pictures on his phone.”
“Pictures?” I asked, even though I already knew what kind they were.
“Efren had a bunch of dirty pictures of me. Some I knew about, but others I didn’t. Pictures he must have taken when we were doing it. He said if I didn’t do what he wanted he was going to beat me, like his uncle did, and put the pictures on the internet. He also said he was going to go to our house and show them to Grandma.”
; “What did he want you to do?”
Her face turned from the window and she looked at me. “What do you think?”
“How did it go down?”
“Efren kept me in his apartment for the next couple of days. I found out later that Grandma thought I ran away. He made me drink a lot, and start smoking crank. He wouldn’t give me any more coke. Then he gave me some lingerie stuff to put on and a woman came over to the apartment.”
“A woman?”
“An old lady I’d never seen before. She gave me a blond wig and put a lot of make-up on me. Efren paid her and she left. Then he took pictures of me with his phone and put them on the internet.”
“How soon after he posted your picture did Efren’s phone start ringing?”
“Only about ten minutes. Efren gave me some clothes; I found out he had a lot of women’s clothing in his apartment. He took a gun, which I didn’t even know he had, and we drove to a hotel in Fremont. He told me again about all the things he and his uncle would do to Grandma and Marisol if I didn’t do it. Then he gave me a hit off the meth-pipe and took me to a room.”
She wiped her eyes, but her voice remained as inflectionless as ever. “The guy paid Efren a bunch of cash. He was old; a lot older than you. And fat. And gross.”
“I can only imagine,” I said.
“When it was over Efren drove me home. He gave me a cell phone and told me to hide it. He said if I lost it, or used it to call anybody other than him, he would send his uncle over to see me.”
“That’s when he started picking you up at school?”
“He’d text me on the phone. I’d meet him at lunchtime. Efren would drive me to a trick, sometimes two or three, and then take me back to school. On nights that Grandma wasn’t home, he’d pick me up after school and drive me around doing tricks until late.”
“How did Marisol find out?”
“She just did. She figured it out, like you. She was my sister.”
“What happened when Marisol found out?”
“Marisol wanted to go to the police, but we knew we couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“What good would that do? Efren’s uncle is a policeman.”
“I see your point,” I said.
“Marisol wouldn’t let me go out one night when Efren texted me. She said she wasn’t going to let it happen to me anymore.”
“So you didn’t go out?”
“No. But the next day Efren was at the school in the morning waiting for me. He grabbed me and drove me to his apartment.”
“It got bad, didn’t it?”
She nodded again. “Efren’s uncle showed up. He was real mad. He raped me again. Then he beat me all over my body with an electrical cord with knots tied in it. I could hardly stand up; I was peeing blood. Efren and his uncle kept me in his apartment until it was dark. Then they drove me out to International Boulevard in Efren’s car, to a Burger King parking lot. It was really cold.”
I’m sure it was,” I said.
“Efren’s uncle introduced me to Drop-Dead; the guy you killed earlier.”
“I know who he is. What did he say?”
“I don’t know, but when they were done, Efren pushed me out of the car. Drop-dead talked to another black guy; a big dude in a white hat. The guy in the white hat talked to a bunch of girls who were out hooking, and one of the girls pointed to a place on the sidewalk.”
“Then what?”
Belicia looked out the window again. “Efren’s uncle and Drop-Dead drove away together in Drop-Dead’s car. Then a truck pulled up with a bunch of Mexican workers in it. The driver paid Drop-Dead’s friend a bunch of money and Efren shoved me into the back of the truck.”
“You don’t have to say any more,” I said.
“I want to tell it,” she said. “I want somebody to know.”
“They all had a turn at me; some of them more than once. There must have been eight or ten guys in the gang-bang. Some of them hit me. When it was over, they pushed me out of the truck and drove away.”
I handed Belicia my handkerchief; her nose had started to run. Other than wiping my fingerprints off evidence at crime scenes, it was relatively clean.
“Efren drove me home and kicked me out of his car a block away from Grandma’s house. He said my days of being driven around to meet tricks in hotel rooms was over. He said to remember the spot on the sidewalk near the Burger King where I’d been. He told me from now on, I was supposed to show up at that exact spot on International Boulevard every night at nine o’clock. He told me that he and his uncle would personally be there at nine o’clock to make sure I showed up. If I wasn’t there on time, he said me, Marisol, and Grandma were dead.”
“What did you do?”
She paused before answering. “I decided to kill myself.”
“How were you going to accomplish this?”
“I had one of Efren’s guns. About a week before, when we were driving to a trick, he had to stop and use the bathroom at a gas station. While he was in the bathroom I searched the car, looking for any dope he might have left around. I found a gun under the seat.”
“Didn’t he search you after each trick? In case you were holding out?” It was standard pimp procedure to pat down their bitches for any drugs or money they might have withheld from a John.
“All he ever did was look in my purse,” she said. “It was a little black gun. I was wearing boots. I put the gun in the bottom of my shoe.”
“You were contemplating killing yourself even before you found the gun, weren’t you?”
Belicia nodded. Poor kid.
I stopped the Mustang at the Bay Bridge toll plaza. I paid the latex-gloved attendant the toll, and accelerated towards the bridge.
“How did Marisol get the gun?”
“She must have taken it while I was asleep. Grandma wasn’t home that night. I was totally messed up. If Marisol hadn’t been there, I would have shot myself.”
“I’m really glad you didn’t,” I said. Belicia gave me a weak smile.
“I must have looked half-dead when I got home. Marisol asked me what happened and I told her everything. Then I took a bath and went to bed. I hurt so bad. I slept all the next day and missed school. When I woke up, it was nighttime again and Marisol was gone.”
“Did you know where she went? What she was planning to do?”
“No; not until the cops came and told Grandma and me Marisol was dead.”
“How did Efren contact you again?”
“At school; like the other times. I didn’t hear from him for about a week. But then he showed up, same as before.”
“You went with him?”
“What was I going to do? Marisol was dead. Grandma wasn’t. I knew what would happen if I didn’t.”
I watched the lights of the Bay Bridge pass overhead as we drove above the waters of the San Francisco Bay.
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “You have to believe that, Belicia.”
“Why should I? Because you say so?”
“Because it’s true.”
“Where’re we going?” she asked.
“Someplace safe. Everything is going to be all right now.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m going to make sure of it.”
I pulled out my cellular phone from my shirt pocket and switched off the audio recording feature. I had recorded the entire conversation with Belicia. Then I dialed Greg Vole’s number. He picked up after at least eight rings. In his house, he probably needed to take a bus to get to the phone.
“Greg Vole speaking,” he said groggily.
“Greg, it’s Chance. Are you awake?”
“I am now. It’s almost midnight,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I’m en route to your place with Belicia Hernandez. Is Reyna there?”
“You have Belicia? Where did you find her?”
“We can talk about that later. Belicia’s in danger, and I’ve got to find a safe place to stash her.
Is Reyna there?” I asked again.
“Yes. She’s asleep in her suite.”
“Good. I’ll be at your door in twenty minutes. Be ready.” I signed off.
“I’m still in danger because of Efren’s uncle aren’t I?”
“That’s right,” I said. There was no point lying to her. She’d been through much worse.
“Wouldn’t he try to hide out or run away?”
“He can’t. Not with you and Efren still breathing. And not after what you did tonight.”
“Why would he come after me now? I’m just a stupid whore; I can’t hurt him.” The degree to which Belicia’s self-worth had been consumed during her turning-out was stark. And tragically typical.
“Belicia,” I said as gently as I could. “Did you really think Drop-Dead and Bo were going to let you stay alive after they killed me? Especially since you were the tool they used to set me up?”
“They wouldn’t kill me; not yet. They want me on the street making money.”
That’s all she thought she was. A commodity.
“You’re wrong, Belicia. Had I been killed, they would have to kill you. You would be a loose end. You could finger them.”
“I set you up to be murdered, didn’t I?”
“No. Bullock and his friend Bo set me up.”
“But I made the phone call.”
“I don’t hold it against you, Belicia. What if you had refused?”
“Drop-Dead would have beaten me; maybe even to death. Then he would have killed Grandma.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Yes. Right after he made me give him and the other guy a blowjob.”
“That means you had no choice. You did what you had to do to survive.”
“You’re not mad?” She looked up at me.
“No, Belicia. I’m not mad at you.”
“You saved my life. Even though I helped Drop-Dead try to kill you.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
I’m not sure if it was the shock of witnessing the shootings, the drugs and alcohol she’d ingested, or the fact that she was a fourteen-year-old adolescent who had been through enough trauma in the past couple of months to break a dozen people twice her age. She was a tough little girl. Beat-down, turned out, addicted, and suffering worthlessness, guilt, and despair; but a tough kid nonetheless. Belicia rolled my handkerchief into a little ball with her hands.