Homeboy

by Seth Morgan

  Sunny shook her head no; but she had known an Anne of a Thousand Cuts, worked the S&M and bodyworship trade out of the classifieds. Miss Kranz squeezed shut her eyes and shuddered to make something go away. She asked Sunny next if she’d seen The Wizard of Oz, which was like asking a hobbyhorse if it had a hickory dick. No American had been spared multiple viewings of this flick unless he’d been comatose for fifty years. Even then the treacly strains of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” would have seeped into a dead head, sweetening puddled gray matter sufficiently for the coroner to pour over his pancakes.

  “Sure. I’ll be Dorothy! Only where are my ruby slippers?”

  Right off Sunny regretted this crack intended to show the old biddy how cultured she was. Not only did Miss Kranz have a hunched back and dentures that clacked every other word, she wore orthopedic shoes. They were gussied up to look like sensible townandcountry doggers, but Sunny had some experience with foot freaks and recognized them for what they were, spaz pads. She was glad when Miss Kranz dismissed the sensitive subject, saying, “Your feet cant be seen in the witness box … Just try and dress the way Dorothy would testifying against the Wicked Witch of …” Miss Kranz harumphed something stuck in her throat and waggled her finger in a circle trying to get her compass bearings: “of the West. Remember, I’ll be there in court so if you get nervous, just look over and think of me as Glenda, the Good Witch of the … North.”

  Sunny stamped her foot. “I like Auntie Em better,” whining over and over just like Judy Garland, “Auntie Em, Auntie Em …” until Miss Kranz clapped her hands over her ears and screamed, “All right! I’ll be Auntie Em …” Though truthfully she looked more like a bag lady in remission than either Auntie Em or a witch from any direction.

  “I figured you might,” Sunny said smugly.

  But she was anything but smug when the Big Day came. Her insides sloshed like laundry in a washer. Sunny had been in court on numerous previous occasions, but her longest line to date had been “Not Guilty.” Today reminded her of that awful morning at Olema High when she forgot the lines to “Hiawatha” and the whole school howled in glee at her humiliation. That was before Sunny found what she did best, which happened not to be Longfellow.

  Luckily, Sunny had dropped a couple of purple Xanax laid on her by another working girl with a potable handle, Cherry Schnapps. She got to court early and hid in back with the media types while everyone filed in. Gee willikers, this was some kind of celebrity trial, judging by the fancyass looks of the people. It was drawing out the freaks too, the hags in crazy hats and old farts in motheaten period costumes. Sunny figured these kooks were too cheap for long distance phone calls and were taking advantage of the trial’s national TV coverage to disappoint distant relatives with proof that they were alive. Boy, was Sunny glad Cherry purpled her down. Xanax was made for days like this.

  But all the tranquilizers on Walgreen’s shelves couldn’t have deadened her horror when Baby Jewels sailed into court like an evil planet trailing its pale cold moon, Quick Cicero. She shrank behind a Chronicle reporter to escape the Death Ray the Fat Man’s ballbearing eyes swept around court to include any state’s witnesses before sitting at the defense table.

  When she heard her name called she rose and marched woodenly to the stand without a sideward look, lest the horrorshow Humpty Dumpty sap her resolve. She was already in the box when she remembered the Juicy Fruit in her mouth. She stuck it under a strip of oak molding.

  Obviously D.A. Faria had been coached on image. With his fresh razorcut hairdo and doublebreasted nautical blazer, he looked like a waterbed salesman answering a swinging singles ad.

  “Please state your name, address, and occupation for the record.” Hands locked behind his back, rocking gently on his Florsheims, smiling brittlely at her.

  Sunny had been through all this a zillion times with Miss Kranz, but it was still so different in the flesh, just like old Longfellow.

  “Sunny Dee—” Faria’s desperate goggle froze her tongue. “Karen Cowley, Mars Hotel, 1544 O’Farrell, Physical Therapist … Unemployed,” she raised her voice over the soft lapping of laughter.

  “Miss Cowley, were you formerly an employee of Mr. Jules Moses?”

  “Baby Jewels, you got it.” She couldn’t yet bear looking at Fatso, even if she wasn’t blinded by Faria’s highvoltage glare. Mechanically, she said, “I was employed by Mr. Jules Moses at the Bunny Hutch at 526 Vespucci, since closed.”

  “And was not your nominal job that of masseuse?”

  “You coulda called me a brain surgeon, but that’s not what I did.”

  Faria hid the slitted look he gunned her. “In fact, Miss Cowley, you were employed as a prostitute.”

  The Fat Man’s lawyer leaped up as if his seat were springloaded. He whipped off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Objection. Counsel is leading the witness.”

  “Sustained.” The voice was female, prompting Sunny to look up at the judge for the first time. All in black, she did look like the Wicked Witch of the West, right down to the wart on the tip of her nose.

  “Miss Cowley, what was the nature of your employment?”

  Goody, she knew this one. “Prostitute.”

  “Were the customers at the Bunny Hutch expecting to get massages?”

  “If they were, it was just one muscle they wanted massaged. The same one on all of them.”

  Laughter rolled around the court. Sunny looked at Baby Jewels for the first time and smiled triumphantly. His eyes streamed back stilettos.

  The Wicked Witch banged her gavel. “Miss Cowley, this is a court, not a cabaret. You’re here to testify, not entertain. Answer directly.”

  Sunny shot her an affected little girl smile of contrition.

  Faria smiled indulgently toward the jury to show he had a funnybone too. Smile pasted in place, he turned back to her and repeated himself.

  “No, they were not expecting massages. They … were expecting sex.”

  Faria turned again to the jury, brows arched and mouth agape as if the news shocked him as well.

  “Now, Miss Cowley. Who did they pay for this sex?”

  “They paid me.”

  “And where did the money go?”

  “It went to Mr. Moses, the man sitting over there.” She pointed without looking.

  “Let the record show Miss Cowley identified the defendant, Jules Moses …” Faria opened his jacket, sank his hands deep in his pockets, and turned to scowl at Moses. Next he treated the jury to a stern prosecutorial frown; then, facing Sunny once more, managed to purse his lips with what appeared to be genuine concern. “Miss Cowley, did the sex for hire always occur on the premises?”

  Now the ball was rolling, Sunny was losing her jitters and remembered her sessions with Miss Kranz better. She smiled across court at Auntie Em. “No. Some men, highrollers usually, wanted the girls up in their hotel rooms …” She turned and told the jury confidentially, “I bet they were sorry later.”

  The other lawyer loudly cleared his throat and groaned, “Objection.” He made a pained expression standing up as if spraining his back in the effort. He held up the glasses to the light, inspecting for dust. “Irrelevant. Conjectural.”

  “Your Honor,” Faria spread his hands.

  “Overruled in this instance.”

  “Exception.” The other lawyer had his hankie out, cleaning the specs.

  “Noted. Proceed, Mr. Faria.”

  “Why do you say that, Miss Cowley?”

  “Because they got ripped off.”

  “Do you mean robbed?”

  “That’s what I mean. We girls robbed them.”

  “Who instructed you to carry out these robberies?”

  “Who else? My boss, Mr. Moses.”

  “Can you give the court the details of these instructions?”

  “When we got to the rooms, we’d sa
y one little drink first. Then we’d slip little pills in the booze and they’d be out like lights. Then we’d rob their cash and jewelry, whatever was in the room.”

  “Why rob them, Miss Cowley, when you could simply perform the service for which you were hired and be paid?”

  “You kidding? A trick’s only a hundred, maybe two. These bozos were totin thousands. They also wore Rolex watches and solid gold ID bracelets and expensive cufflinks. One even had a diamond stud earring.”

  While she spoke, Faria had stepped to the D.A.’s table and returned with an orange plastic vial. “I show you this bottle of tablets. Are they the ones you used?”

  “Shake one out … Yup, that’s them.”

  “I move to enter this vial as People’s Exhibit G and further stipulate for the record that the tablets contained therein have been analyzed by the police laboratories as containing the powerful hypnotic chloral hydrate …” Faria held out the vial for the defense lawyer to inspect. Sidney Dreaks waved it away without looking up from his notes.

  “Miss Cowley, how many times did you personally participate in these robberies?”

  “Ten, twelve times. Maybe more.”

  “And to whom did you give the proceeds, the cash and jewelry you robbed from the unconscious hotel guests?”

  “I gave the loot to Quick, over there beside Mr. Moses.”

  “You mean Robert Cicero?”

  “Yes. He was always waiting in the hotel lobby in case there was trouble, and we’d call down when we were done. Quick gave the stuff to Mr. Moses, who gave us back our cut.”

  “One last question, Miss Cowley. What happened to the girls who said no …” He turned to the jury and raised his voice. “What happened to the girls willing to prostitute themselves but who drew the line at Felonious Assault and Robbery?”

  “Objection. Counsel has not laid foundation for either assault or robbery.”

  “Overruled … Yes, Mr. Dreaks. Your every exception is being noted.”

  “Miss Cowley?”

  “They were beaten. Or worse. Girls usta tell me …”

  “Objection. Hearsay.”

  “Sustained … Miss Cowley, you may only testify as to what is your firsthand personal knowledge. Not what other people said.”

  Faria cleared his throat and stared at her from beneath his brows exactly how Miss Kranz said he would for the wrapup. “Miss Cowley, I ask again to make perfectly clear for the jury. Were you a prostitute in the employ of Jules Moses for over three years?”

  She tried to put a quaver in her voice the way she’d rehearsed.

  “Ye-eesss!”

  “And during those three years did you commit multiple thefts and robberies at the behest of the defendant?”

  “Yaaassss!” There, that was closer.

  “Would the witness like a glass of water?” asked the Wicked Witch.

  Oops! overdid it. “No thank you, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, Miss Cowley,” Faria bowed from the hips. “You’ve been most”—he turned, rising on his toes to peer meaningfully across the jurors’ faces—“illuminating … Your witness, Mr. Dreaks.”

  What? They told her there’d be a break before crossexamination. In a panic Sunny looked to Miss Kranz, who shrugged helplessly. Some Auntie Em. She might as well have been in Kansas. The Xanax was wearing off, she had cotton mouth; she glanced covetously at the gum stuck beneath the lip of molding.

  Mr. Dreaks didn’t look up until he’d made one last notation. Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his little paunch and said: “Well, Miss Cowley, that was a nice performance …”

  “Objection. Combative and immaterial.”

  “Comment withdrawn.” Dreaks draped a complicit smile over the jury. “Miss Cowley, were you assisted in the preparation of your testimony?”

  “Jeepers.”

  “For the purposes of clarification, does ‘jeepers’ mean yes or no?”

  She looked to Faria, who nodded tightly. “Yes. But they just helped me tell what I already knew to be true.”

  “Ver-ry good, Miss Cowley. But that’s the answer you’re supposed to give when asked if the D.A. actually fabricated your testimony … I hadnt gotten to that yet.” He shook his head, chuckling, and rose. He started walking toward the witness box, looking at the floor. “Miss Cowley, when the D.A. asked your name, you began to give what I believe you call your ‘work’ or ‘street’ name … What is that name?”

  “Sunny Deelight. It’s an orange juice drink.”

  “An orange juice drink. Why are you called that?”

  Sunny did a little burlesque for the court, making an innocent O of her mouth and pointing her forefinger into her cheek. “Because I taste good?”

  Dreaks nodded knowingly at a fat female jurist in a doily dress who looked like she might write greeting card doggerel and repeated the line: “Because she tastes good.”

  He whirled on her then, scowling accusingly. “Isnt it true, Miss Deelight, that you have multiple arrests for prostitution, for grand theft, for vagrancy, for …”

  “Objection. Immaterial. Miss Cowley is not on trial here.”

  “Overruled. Miss Cowley’s criminal record can be considered by the jury in evaluating her character. However, the court would remind the jury that the mere fact of prior convictions on other, unrelated charges has no direct bearing on her credibility in the matter at hand.”

  “Exception. This is an improper time to instruct the jury.”

  “Noted. Get on with it.”

  “Miss Cowley, I submit you engaged in prostitution while in the employ of Mr. Moses on your own initiative and with neither his approval or knowledge. That you robbed massage customers in hotels for your own profit … And”—Dreaks raised his voice over Faria’s objections—“that you are testifying today, weaving this web of false accusations about my client in exchange for a deal offered you in regards to a criminal complaint in Las Vegas.”

  “No. Vegas is where they found me, but it aint got nothing to do with me being here. I’m glad to be here. To testify so other girls …”

  “Come now, Miss Cowley. In exchange for your testimony today, hasnt the D.A.’s office arranged with Nevada authorities to have charges identical to the ones you’re leveling at my client dropped? Charges of hotel room grand theft in circumstances suggesting sexual enticement and involving knockout drops? Isnt it true you go from state to state robbing unsuspecting johns?”

  “No! I’m an honest whore.”

  “An honest whore,” Dreaks repeated the apparent oxymoron for the jury, gesturing disgustedly toward the witness box.

  “Yes, an honest whore!” she screamed. “I’m testifying so Fatso and his sidekick dont hurt no more girls. I heard the office beatings, seen the cuts and bruises and broken hands and feet. Oh none of them reported it, not unless they wanted killing.”

  Dreaks sneered, “Miss Cowley, did these girls wear doggie collars like the one about your neck today? And if so, werent those cuts and bruises the willing fruits of their sexual orientation?”

  “This collar belonged to my Yorkie. His name was Pard. Your client cooked my only friend in his office microwave. Because he thought maybe, just maybe I held out on him. That’s the kind of scum signs your check …”

  “Your Honor, I move the witness be dismissed. She is overwrought, her imagination is running away with her.”

  “Imagination, huh? I suppose I imagined this!” Sunny jumped up and ripped open her blouse exposing a shriveled breast shiny with burn scars. “It’s called a Moses boobjob. Some are done with butane torches, others with an iron. Quick Cicero did this baby with a hotplate ring. For telling a customer I’d meet him for a drink after work.”

  The court recoiled in horrified silence. Then the voices gathered, rising in an irresistible wave, drowning out the judge’s furious gaveli
ng, the bailiff’s shouted orders; drowning out everything except Sunny’s piercing cry from the box: “But that aint nothing! Others who wouldnt flatback for him died for the birdie. Got fucked and blown away. On film and video. He made em star in their very own snuff movies. Welcome to This is Your Death. Snuffers shipped to every sick corner of the earth by his company. He used to make the other girls watch em just to know what they had comin if they crossed him …”

  Then even her tirade was drowned as the wave of noise crashed and chaos erupted. Baby Jewels was on his feet screaming threats, shaking fistfuls of rings at the witness box, Quick was pummeling the father of a preteen milkcarton model who’d charged the railing to get at the Pimp Blimp; the fat female jurist in the frilly dress fainted. Extra bailiffs poured in through side doors, adding to the melee. One young reporter, in a frenzy to reach a phone, catapulted himself atop the churning surf of arms and legs clogging the center aisle to bodysurf out of court on the seething human tide.

  Unconscious of the tumult, Sunny Deelight sat with wide glassy eyes watching the snuff flicks projected onto the back of her skull: the red and white brains splashed on yellow motel wallpaper, a knife opening a wound like an eager pink mouth, lolling dead heads atop bluing shoulders shuddering again and again under the assault of posthumous intercourse.

  She shrugged sadly. She hadn’t meant to say anything. Mr. Dreaks shouldn’t have doubted she was an honest whore. She really and truly was until Baby Jewels nuked her naynay. After that the Murphy was the only game left Sunny Deelight.

  She screwed her mouth sideways. Gee willikers, was it dry. She reached under the oak molding and retrieved the wad of Juicy Fruit.

  MAINTENANCE YARD

  The maintenance yard was a collection of corrugated tin sheds facing each other across a narrow enclosure surfaced with cinder chips and gravel. The sheds abutted the cellblocks on the inside and the perimeter fencing where it ran closest to the prison on the outside. The biggest shed belonged to Crew Five, headquarters to Joe’s fellow T Wingies Rudy Malec and Gerald Irons, their base of contraband operations since Hobby was shut down. The Paint Crew, Electric Shop, Carpentry, Plumbing, Glazier, and Institutional Locksmith occupied the other sheds.