by Darrell Bain
I thought I had a couple of days before an all-out alert would go out for me and I hurried. First thing, I rented a room in the northeast section of the city where illegal activity was as much a part of life as a beer after mowing the lawn on a Saturday morning in the suburbs. I gave a fictitious name and address of course, and wasn't asked for any identification. Hell, even a high class hotel doesn't do that if you pay in cash. The room was about what you would expect for that part of town. A queen sized bed with sagging mattress and threadbare spread, a battered table with two drawers, only one of which would open, and a chair designed by the usual gremlins who have a vendetta against comfortable seating in motels regardless of room cost. The bathroom tile was broken in places, a legacy of couples who took their antagonisms into the shower. The sink was stained and the mirror was peeling. About all I could say for it was that it was serviceable, if you didn't mind hand towels and wash cloths worn so thin that you could have run them through a printer.
After washing some of the road sweat off, I hit an after hours-bar on the street Manny had told me about. It wasn't hard to locate; they had a sleazy looking woman in a tight skirt and overlarge breasts right outside the door practically dragging customers inside. She didn't mention the big man in jeans and tank top right inside who intimidated anyone into contributing ten bucks in order to take the stairs up to where the action was.
I almost left, mainly because it was so damn dark that I could hardly see, but after a minute my eyes began to adjust and I could tell that the place served primarily as a last resort for second rate men who still hadn't gotten enough liquor into the third rate women to get their clothes off. And if it still didn't work, there was a sprinkling of rather obvious prostitutes who were waiting to take their place.
I picked one of the prostitutes who looked to be in her late forties to start a conversation with. I figured one of the older ones would be able to steer me to someone who dealt in ID's, but I didn't know exactly how to get the ball rolling. As soon as I seated myself beside her on the bar, she surprised me.
"Hello. I'm Mona. You can sit here and talk if you like but don't expect anything else."
Then what was she doing here? She was attractive enough that I didn't think she had to shop for men in a place like this. I tried the age-old gambit.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"Why not?” She had a pleasant voice, low but not husky.
I pulled out money from the pocket of my jeans, suddenly wondering if she might work at the place. If so, the “drink” would be either disguised tea or Seven-Up, one imitating whiskey, the other champagne, and the lady would get a kickback in either case. The bartender gave me a swift appraisal while he took the order, a beer for me and a brandy for her. I winced at the charge for both drinks but didn't argue. It was information I was after and the drink she got was real; I could smell the aroma of the brandy.
Mona wasn't as shopworn as I had thought at first after I took a second look. It seemed almost as if she were deliberately trying to make herself look older by wearing her dark hair in an unfashionable bun and using way too much makeup. She also appeared to just be going through the motions with me while waiting on something or someone, but she wasn't hard to talk to. When I told her I worked in a hospital she really seemed interested, but prostitute or not, I got the idea she was after money. She had certainly eyed my roll with interest. She told me that she wasn't working anywhere at the moment, but while she was well dressed, her clothes didn't have that chic look of apparel bought from boutiques; they were strictly department store, like my own. I kind of liked her. She wasn't obviously trying to separate me from my money; not so far at least.
Finally I bit the bullet. It was getting late. I not only needed a place to stay, I still needed some new identification.
"Would like to go somewhere else?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.
"What did you have in mind?” She asked, raising a cynical eyebrow.
"Um, I need a place to spend the night where I won't be asked questions. And my wife has left me."
"Uh huh.” She glanced at my finger, perhaps searching for a ring. I could sense that she didn't believe that one; she must have heard it a thousand times before.
Abruptly, I changed tactics. “Sorry, that wasn't true."
"So why can't you go home?"
"It's a long story. Uh, I'd kind of like to stay with you.” I said. “I could sleep on the couch, if you have one.” I guess you can tell that I wasn't very familiar with this kind of negotiation. What I really wanted was someone familiar with this area who could steer me in the right direction for the fake ID and not pull a scam on me.
Mona eyed me like I sometimes did doctors I knew to be incompetent. “Let's walk,” she said.
I paid for our drinks, one for her and two for me. I pulled the money from my wallet rather than my pocket as I had done before, purposely letting her see how full it was. I think that convinced her more than anything. Anyone planning violence or real kinky sex probably wouldn't be carrying that much money, or so I deduced.
Outside (after tipping the inside guard and the lady tending the door), we walked down about half a block to the next intersection. She stopped under the street light and folded her arms across her chest.
"Who are you? The law?"
I guess I didn't fit in with the after-hours crowd as well as I thought I had. “Uh, no. But I need something, some information."
"Sorry, try the library.” She started to walk away.
"Wait! I can pay!” I practically shouted at her, not wanting her to get away, not after investing the time I had spent with her.
She stopped but didn't come any closer. “I'm not a snitch. Nor a prostitute, if that's what you're thinking. I told you all I was interested in was talk."
"I didn't think you were a snitch. Anyway, it's not people I'm after."
She glanced at her watch. “Look, it's late. Tell me what you want."
"Some identification?” I said hesitantly.
"You're with vice, aren't you?"
"No."
She started to walk away again. Suddenly I had a bright idea, the first one since hitting this street. “Have you ever heard of Manny Allred?"
That stopped her. “Manny? Last I heard he was doing a nickel at Huntsville."
"He's out now. Last time I saw him was when he left the hospital."
That got her attention. She took a few steps back toward me. “What was wrong with him?"
"An accident. He forgot how bad Dallas traffic is when he started driving again. He's okay now though, or he was last I saw of him."
"So what's he doing?"
"Going straight, so he said."
That intrigued her. “Really? That's good.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to make up her mind. Money wasn't the problem; she knew I had money. It was whether or not to trust me. Finally, she said, “Come on. I'll put you in touch, but I charge a commission."
"Good for you. Where to?"
"I've got a place. I'll need two hundred up front and more later."
I paid, drawing the first smile from her. It made her look much younger. I could see remnants of what must once have been a very pretty, perhaps beautiful woman, with thick black hair and high cheekbones that went well with her smile. It made me wonder, as I had in the past, what drove some women into this kind of life. I knew better than to ask though. If she wanted to talk, she would. And after all, it was some new ID papers I was after, not her life story.
CHAPTER FIVE
Two blocks from where we had met was an old hotel, similar to the one I was checked into but even more rundown. I think it had once been a two story department store or something like that, then converted. A long time ago.
Mona led me up a flight of stairs and down a hall, with a track plainly worn into the carpet from a million footsteps trodding the same path year after year. She unlocked her door with an old fashioned key, dropped it into her purse and pulled the door closed
.
Before doing anything else, she went to the bed, felt way back under the mattress and pulled out a vial of pills. She shook a couple into her hand and closed it back up and put it away, then tossed them into her mouth and swallowed them with a gulp of water from the glass sitting on the stand beside the sagging bed.
That explained a lot, though she offered no apologies. I knew it had to be some sort of narcotic by the way her hands had begun shaking before taking the pills and the way she breathed a sigh of relief at getting them down, even before they began taking effect. Not that she got high or crazy or anything like that. Long time addicts keep taking their poison, not to get high but to avoid the excruciating symptoms of physical withdrawal. I offer this little scene as a good example of how wrong assumptions can be.
"Have a seat,” she told me. She lay down on the bed on her side facing me and took a modern cell phone from her purse. She thumbed in a number while I sat down on the only chair in the room. The seating gremlins had been there too. It hurt my back and dug into my thighs but I sat still while she talked, using the esoteric street language of the identity dealers. I couldn't understand most of it. Eventually she interrupted the conversation and turned to me. “You want a passport too?"
"No, but I would like a concealed weapons permit."
A few more quick words, then, “The identity will cost you a K. Driver's license and social security card. Another K for the permit."
I nodded agreement, even though that would leave me with less than a thousand on my person, along with ten one ounce gold pieces. She spoke again, then put her phone back into her purse. As she did, she flinched, then drew out her hand and shook her forefinger.
"What happened?” I asked.
She laughed. “Stuck a straight pin in my finger. I knew the damn thing was lost in there; I had just forgotten.” She wiped her finger on the bedspread, leaving a small red stain to go with numerous old ones that hadn't washed out.
"You'll need to give Burt your old driver's license,” she said.
"How about just the picture?"
"That'll probably do. He'll be here shortly."
I thought a minute. “How about you giving him the photo and the vital statistics? I'll wait in the bathroom."
"If I had known you were that hot, I would have asked for more."
"I couldn't have paid much more,” I admitted.
"No problem. Give me the money, and another two hundred for me. That's my commission."
I let her have the money and borrowed a razor blade from her to cut the photo off the license. I wrote down my right birthday, a younger age, my same first name since it was so common, but listed Cronkite as my last name. I retreated to the bathroom when the knock came on the door. It hadn't been much more than ten minutes.
I could hear a muffled conversation taking place behind the wooden door to the bathroom. I hoped I had picked right in coming here with Mona and she and her cohort didn't just walk away with my money. I thought I had, and a few minutes later, she knocked on the door proving me right.
I came back into the room and sat down again on that tortuous chair. We talked desultorily for a while. She told me her last name was Terrell and that she had been born in Woodville in east Texas. She granted me another of her rare smiles when I told her I had been born on a farm right near the Indian reservation and that my folks had moved to Lufkin when Dad went broke farming. The reservation is near Woodville and only about fifty or sixty miles from Lufkin. We didn't go much further with that. Neither of us was giving away much personal information; we were just passing time. To her, I was probably just a con on the run and she most likely thought the best thing about me was that I hadn't tried to include sex with our deal.
"I can loan you a razor if you need to shave,” she offered.
I felt my chin, wondering how a beard would look. I hadn't worn one in many years. But then, the photo on my new ID wouldn't match. On the other hand, a mustache wouldn't hurt and might help. May as well get started now; it would give me something to do while waiting on the ID.
"Thanks. I'll take you up on it."
She followed me into the grungy bathroom and leaned on the jamb to watch me shave, using a bit of her shampoo for lather. I handled the razor gingerly, not being used to it. I've always used an electric razor to shave with.
"Growing a mustache, huh?” She asked when I had finished.
"Uh huh.” I glanced toward her and promptly cut myself. “Ouch!” I said.
"Sorry. Guess it's a bit dull. She reached over and wiped at the bit of blood on my cheek with her finger.
I stopped what I was doing and stared at her. She had wiped at the blood with the forefinger of her right hand, the same one that she had stuck with a pin only a few minutes ago!
"What's wrong? You look like you just ran into a stun gun."
I wiped at my face with the old washcloth while trying to recover. Good God, what if I had infected her?
"What is it?” Mona's voice was insistent. I guess I still had that stunned expression on my face.
Without really thinking about it, I reached out and took her hand and led her back into the room. What to do, what to do? I could tell that she already sensed something out of the ordinary had just happened but she didn't know what. That changed a second later when I sat down in the chair. She caught me staring at her finger.
"What-oh, Goddamn! You bastard, have you given me AIDS!” Her face convulsed in an agony of disgust, like she had just opened the door to her refrigerator and gotten the smell of rotting meat in her nostrils. “Oh, shit, all this time as a shill and being raped and never a dose of anything and now a goddamn straight pin kills me!” When I didn't respond, she began crying.
Reflexively, I went to her intending comfort, but she turned her back. “Get away from me! Damn it all to hell, why didn't you tell me you had AIDS?"
As if anyone carrying that virus would go around telling people they had it. She was just upset and not being logical. I can't say that I blamed her. Put me in her shoes and I would have been tempted to shoot the other person, not just cry.
"I don't have AIDS,” I said.
She turned to look at me. Her face was streaked with tears and her expression hovered between hope and disbelief. Just as she was about to reply, there came a knock at the door. She brushed at her eyes and went to see while I retreated to the bathroom again.
A few minutes later I heard the entrance door close again and I came back out. Wordlessly, she handed me my new cards. I examined them quickly then tucked them away in my wallet. Before leaving here, I would destroy every other piece of paper or card I had that gave my real name. From now on I was Michael Cronkite. I put my wallet away and looked up.
Mona was staring at me, wanting an explanation. I wanted one too. What had she said? All the years as a shill? And being raped? Now what did that mean? I had first taken her for a prostitute, then as a shady character trolling for customers interested in ID fraud and most likely additional illegal endeavors. Well, I suppose enticing men into scams would probably have involved some sex along the way, where it was necessary to reel the sucker in. Probably some of them had managed to catch her unaware, and knowing she couldn't complain, used the opportunity for rape. It was none of my business, even though I was curious. Shilling didn't appear to pay very well, not when considering her current living conditions. Anyway, that could be put on hold for a bit; she was still waiting for me to tell her what kind of problem I did have if it wasn't AIDS.
"Let's sit down,” I said, motioning her over to her spot on the bed. She sat down on the side of it rather than laying down like before. She was looking at me expectantly while I debated furiously with myself over whether to tell her there was a good chance that I had infected her with some weird organism that I couldn't identify, or to try passing my reaction to the cut on my face after she touched it to something else, maybe some harmless, symptomless disease. The problem was, I didn't know a single thing that the general population was aware
of that could be passed by blood contact and was at the same time harmless. Also, now that our gaze was locked to each other, I could see the gleam of intelligence in her dark brown eyes, competing with an overlay of cynicism concerning men in general. At least that's what I thought I saw, and I decided quickly that she wouldn't be easy to fool.
What finally decided me was that I intended to leave Dallas as soon as I disposed of my car now that I had a new identity, and it wasn't likely that she would spill the beans, not after I told her how frantic Homeland Security was acting about whatever it was I had.
"I've got to tell you something Mona,” I said. “But do you have anything here to drink first?” I was feeling the need.
I guess she was too. I hadn't noticed the bottle of cheap brandy sitting behind the coffee maker on the old vanity. I waited while she made coffee and poured us a shot into two Styrofoam cups. “I have a drink sometimes when I'm hurting,” she said while the coffee was brewing.
"Hurting?"
"I've got SLE. It's at the stage where the pain gets bad sometimes."
It took a moment to register. SLE. Systemic Lupus Erythematosis. “Oh. Sorry, I didn't know. I thought—"
"I saw your reaction. You thought my pills were dope. They are so far as that goes, but they're a legal prescription and I don't have to take them all the time, just when it gets real painful, like it was when we came in. And I use enough makeup to mask the butterfly pattern when it shows up real bad, like it's doing now.” She poured for us, added a shot of brandy to each cup and fetched mine to me while I was reviewing what else I knew about Lupus in my mind. It is one of those autoimmune diseases and afflicts more women than men. The symptoms vary from person to person and from mild to severe, causing doctors to confuse it with other diseases and making it hard to diagnose. The rose colored butterfly pattern she mentioned appears off and on across the nose and cheeks. So I thought she isn't an addict after all, at least not in the classical sense.