Pavement

  “Hey, you can’t be here right now.” He checked the clock. “My shift ends in an hour. There’s a KFC across the highway, I’ll meet you there.”

  She smiled, revealing some busted teeth, and stumbled through the front door. She was in worse shape than he initially thought. Still, she was family, and he felt bad about what she’d been through.

  When his shift ended, he met her at the KFC and bought her a chicken tenders and side of fries. They caught up for about twenty minutes, and then she laid it on him.

  Maurice said no. He didn’t want to do anything illegal. The promise to his mother still weighed heavily on him. Stacy sighed.

  “I’m not asking you to get your hands dirty.”

  “I can’t do it. Besides, what do I know about prostitution?”

  “You know how to manage things, right?” Stacy said. She sat across from him, hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore just enough makeup to accentuate the beauty she had left. She was in her late twenties but looked like she was in her forties.

  “Yes, but there’s a difference.”

  “I know the ins and outs. I can handle the money, recruiting, the day to day.”

  “So why do you need me?”

  She sat forward. Under the direct light, he could see remnants of scars and her heavy use of concealer. “It’s medieval out there. I need someone watching my back.”

  He took two twenties from his wallet and laid them on the table.

  “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “Just something to help.”

  “Mo-Mo,” she began. It was what she’d called him when they were much younger. “Please, think about it.”

  That night, Maurice returned home. He would give her the benefit of thinking it over and coming up with ironclad reasons to avoid entering into a business arrangement with her. But the more he thought about it, the more difficult it became to shoot it down. Sitting at the kitchen table, he flipped through bills, loan payments, and overdue notices. He was still in the process of settling his mother’s estate, and though she had left him and his sister money, there were already liens against it.

  He heard feet on the hardwood floor.

  His sister Janice stood there in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes.

  “Hey, what are you doing up?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Why don’t you find something good to watch, I’ll be in in a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  She was going to be nine in two months. Their mother had been pregnant with her when their father died from an overdose. Maurice flipped through the bills one more time. Felt the weight of them increasing in his hands. He considered Stacy’s proposition again. Money had a way of swallowing up principles.

  He met her the following day and told her he was willing to get involved.

  But, before they could begin, he wanted to do some research, avoid the pitfalls of territorial disputes and extortion. He knew there would be a way to maximize profits and limit their exposure. It would just take some time to figure out.

  Stacy moved in to cut down on expenses and share rent.

  He mapped out the plan within two weeks.

  “Just look,” he said when they were seated at the table one night. He had unfolded a map of Charleston across the table.

  “There’s an untapped resource, right off the highway.”

  He explained how the trucking industry comprised a majority percentage of the johns who frequented prostitutes in this part of the state. If they kept their operation closer to the interstate, they could capitalize. Not only would they be out on the fringe, away from most of the action, but they could base their enterprise out of his motel.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Sounds like we’ve got to cut more people in, or take on another partner.”

  “I’ve already put in to switch to the midnight to eight shift.” Before she could voice more negative opinions, he continued. “It’s right off an exit, sandwiched between a burger joint and a rest stop. It’s the perfect location. Also, what are your biggest problems?”

  She didn’t answer. It was a rhetorical question.

  “Protection and the police,” he said. “This solves both of ’em.

  Stacy paused and took it all in, then slowly nodded. She looked much better now. She was still using, but she’d cut down on the amount and the showers, sleep, and clean clothes did wonders.

  She told him she was going to start recruiting talent.

  Stacy moved quickly. The following week, she introduced Maurice to Angel and Fantasia. They were tough and weathered, with crudely applied makeup, but they bought into Stacy’s pitch. Angel wore purple lipstick and matching eye shadow. Her skin was sallow from some vitamin deficiency. Maurice wondered if she ever saw sunlight.

  Fantasia had braces and wore pigtails. Multiple piercings were stuck through each ear. She reminded Maurice of a girl he’d went gone to high school with, which simultaneously aroused and repulsed him. He felt ashamed.

  Stacy put everything into motion. They set up in the last room of the motel. Maurice kept two sets of books and logs—one to show the owner, the other to keep track of expenses and income.

  Within the first week, they had established their presence. Maurice monitored the cleaning staff to see if they noticed anything out of the ordinary, like why the last room on the ground floor had so much traffic. No one said anything. He was certain they wouldn’t be a problem as most of them were in the country illegally.

  Everything was going smoothly and word spread. Maurice was stringent about keeping the operation small. He had to remind Stacy that they were making plenty of money already and didn’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.

  “No,” he said for the third time. They sat around the kitchen table poking at leftovers. Janice was on the couch, and both of them could hear the television keeping her entertained.

  “If we keep it small, we don’t run unnecessary risks. We can make enough money.”

  “I’m just saying, maybe we work more shifts, or expand to more rooms.”

  “We can’t.”

  Although she hemmed and hawed, she ultimately agreed.

  After filling the seventh shoe box full of cash, Maurice realized they would need to somehow safe house or launder the money.

  Stacy lost count, again.

  She looked over at Mo-Mo, who was meticulously keeping the figures in a marbled composition book. She felt the next series of withdrawal symptoms come, and she tried her best not to grimace. Her stomach muscles tightened in on themselves.

  He’d only agreed to be her partner if she got clean.

  “A junkie won’t be able to make on-the-spot moves,” he had said. Not to mention, he wouldn’t stand for her being high when Janice was around. Stacy gave it a go. She really did. Working a shift kept her mind occupied, and each guy she was with allowed her to think she was one step closer to quitting the life altogether.

  They were making good money.

  She had a roof over her head and didn’t have to worry about a two-bit hustler with a blade threatening to beat her or, worse, disfiguring her for life.

  “You want me to take you to a clinic?” Mo-Mo had asked.

  “No, I’ll go straight on my own. I promise.”

  He made like he was going to try to convince her to go to a clinic, but he stopped. So, she’d put down the pills. The first two days were brutal. The withdrawals sent her into pain she didn’t think possible. She could have asked to seek treatment, and he would have driven her. He wouldn’t have rubbed it in, either—he was always good like that. Maybe, because of the leg braces he had to wear, he never pointed out the shortcomings of others.

  No. She wouldn’t go, damn it, because she could kick this thing.

  By the third day, she could barely get out of bed.

  She waited until he went to work. She had been feverish but pumped up the malaise more than was necessary. Quickly,
she was out of bed and found the hiding place with her emergency stash. It was still there. Janice was at a neighbor’s. Stacy had maybe a forty-minute grace period, which is was all she needed. She dry swallowed three Percocet tablets. The first hit crossed the blood/brain barrier, and she was home.

  Instant relief.

  This is all I need to do. Just maintain. She could hide it. She had been good at that her whole life.

  Eventually, word got back from the girls that some of the truckers didn’t like using the motel. Too much exposure. They wanted to remain secure in the cab. The girls argued they could service more people this way. Maurice fought it at first. In the motel, they had the control. Johns would be less prone to start anything if they were in a public place. Stacy and the girls pushed for it, though, and Maurice finally relented.

  The first sign of trouble was minor.

  Angel came back one night missing a tooth, with a fractured wrist. Some johns liked to get physical, but this was a different animal. Maurice took Angel to the ER, but she would be out of commission for a little while.

  They chalked it up to a work-related hazard. Most of the girls were seasoned and although they were pissed, they knew it was part of the game. Still, it bothered Maurice.

  “For now, we’re under the radar, but, at some point, Vice is going to catch on. We have until then.”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt like he was getting an ulcer. Maybe they should expand. Who knew how long their luck would hold out. Each day, more things had the potential to go wrong. The cops could be turned on to them, or worse, another pimp. This thing with Angel kept him up, though, since it was a problem that couldn’t be solved with a payoff.

  Another week went by, and things settled down.

  Then it happened again. This time, it was Fantasia.

  They found her unconscious. Maurice told the doctor he found her by the side of the road, concerned motorist, etc. She had bruised ribs and a concussion. He and Stacy agreed to suspend the business temporarily. When Fantasia was released, she and Angel sat down with Maurice. Didn’t take long to realize it was the same guy.

  “I don’t know, he had blonde hair and a beard.”

  “And?” Maurice was trying his best not to sound impatient, but this was the third time Angel repeated herself. She looked at him with dead eyes.

  “He like wore a hat, too,” Fantasia said. She was still somewhat loopy on whatever they’d prescribed, so she was going in and out during their conversation.

  “Do you remember what it said?”

  Fantasia continued to stare at the ceiling. Her shoulders sank.

  “No.”

  “I gotta get going. I gotta pick up my kid,” Angel said, and lit a Parliament.

  “Sure,” Maurice said.

  “Come on.” Angel helped Fantasia up. She winced from the bruises on her chest and sides. When he was alone again, Maurice realized he couldn’t handle this problem on his own.

  McGill sucked at his teeth. He loved ribs, loved them. But damn it if he didn’t always get something caught in his teeth. When it wouldn’t dislodge, he grabbed a toothpick from the dispenser.

  Across from him, Maurice looked distraught.

  “So, how can I help you?”

  “Well,” Maurice began, but McGill put his hand up. His stomach was rebelling, so he downed some antacid tablets, chased them with a Mickey’s, and grimaced until the sensation passed.

  “Please,” McGill said, making a hand gesture for Maurice to continue.

  “We’ve been having some problems with a john beating up some of the girls.”

  “I see.”

  Maurice first came to McGill a little while ago to clean some of his funds. McGill almost choked on his coleslaw when Maurice revealed his profession. The feathered hat and bling was just a movie stereotype, but even so McGill never would have guessed. Maurice was young, too—probably late twenties, early thirties—but there was a quiet, reserved energy about him. He was respectful and spoke with authority.

  McGill had driven by the motel once to check it out. Not because he wanted to sample the goods, but he wanted to confirm his suspicions before making arrangements for the kid’s funds.

  If the operation looked crudely managed, he’d refer the kid to someone else. But everything checked out.

  “What do you have in mind?” McGill asked.

  Maurice placed the tips of his fingers together to form a pyramid.

  “Do you know someone who could stake out this trucker? Maybe put the fear into him?”

  McGill sneered and put up his hand. The waiter went through the double doors for entrée number two.

  “I happen to know someone.”

  Gropper got out of the car and stretched his legs. He’d been there for five hours. Nothing so far. That was fine. He had the radio tuned to the jazz station, and they put out a nice mix.

  He met with McGill three days earlier to hear about the gig. Seemed straightforward enough. Case the place, wait for the action, then settle it. Gropper rolled by two days before and took everything into account.

  The process was simple.

  The john would approach the girl. She would send him to the front to get a room while she waited. A moment later, the two of them disappeared into the last room on the ground floor. Ten minutes later, the john left, got in his car, and drove away. The girl emerged two minutes after that and stood in the same spot as before, smoking a cigarette.

  Gropper made out two other working girls, although it would be difficult to tell if you weren’t looking for it. A smart business model. From far away, none of them looked like working girls. They didn’t stand around in a group or solicit, they waited to be approached. To anyone keeping surveillance, it looked like a couple getting a room for the evening. Only the one girl continued to use the hotel room. The others were further down, closer to the rest stop. Every so often, another of the girls would return to the room, probably to freshen up or reload for the evening.

  Now, on day three, Gropper was finally ready.

  He got back into the car and listened to Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue. McGill had told him that the two attacks happened a week apart, both within a two-hour window. It made sense that the guy had a route going this way each week, and his pit stop here was his way to relax.

  “We’re scanning the scene in the city tonight…” Larry sang, along with the words to “Seek and Destroy” by Metallica. He had trouble keeping himself contained. He’d been driving for almost twelve hours straight, doing enough crank to keep his teeth sharp, and feeling like if he didn’t get some release soon, it would be a problem.

  He wasn’t a violent person. At least, he didn’t consider what he did to be violent. He just lost control, and something else took over. He remembered the last time, still a clear vision in his mind. Her body crumbling before him as if he was were consuming her soul.

  Larry liked being on the road. He liked movement. When he was down, if he had any off time, he was just another cog in the wheel. The life suited him. He’d always been an outsider. Sure, he played sports like all the other kids and held his own when challenged, but he took to the solitude. He was king of the road. Most guys burned out. They couldn’t handle the stress of the long hours, the boredom, the paralysis. Those were the very things that drew Larry to the trucking life like a moth to a flame. The most rewarding thing, though, was how he had complete freedom.

  No house, no car, no kids. No payments due on any of those.

  He’d been married earlier in his life. A big mistake. Coming home every night to the same scene. She was a good woman, and they had a nice time for a while. They went to church regularly, had cookouts with the neighbors. She volunteered at the Veterans of Foreign Wars and hosted events for almost every volunteer group.

  Larry couldn’t put his finger on why, but he began to feel trapped. He withdrew and spent more time away from the house. It had become a prison. She tolerated his behavior at fir
st. They were still newlyweds, and this was probably a natural reaction. But months went by, until it seemed like he was barely there.

  They had it out one night. He’d been drinking and came home to an ambush. Before he knew it, his hand flew, depositing her on the floor. She was more shocked than anything, and he was already through the door before she could react. He never went back. He met with her only once more after that, to sign the divorce papers. She could have everything, as far as he was concerned. He went west, as he’d heard most people did when looking for escape.

  The trucking company hired him immediately. He had a solid driving record, would work weekends and holidays, and carry any load they asked. Weather wasn’t an issue, and he proved he could come in on time. That’s all they needed.

  Soon, he was making cross-country trips. He learned the ways of the road, picked up the slang, made a vast network of friends who kept him plied with information. After two years on the road, he knew every major thoroughfare through the contiguous states. When asked, Larry could relay information about where to get the cheapest gas, the best sandwiches, or ice cream from a mom-and-pop store. He lived on a diet of coffee, fast food, and speed. Then, of course, there were other needs to be satiated.

  Larry had his first encounter two months into his journey.

  He’d never had problems before. Transactions went smoothly, he was satisfied, and there were girls aplenty. But this one claimed a different price before they had started. Afterward, she sat with her arms folded and wouldn’t leave.

  “You said twenty, end of story.” Larry held out the bill.

  “Thirty, motherfucker.” She wiped at her mouth with a long blue fingernail. Larry nodded. He wondered if this was a racket she threw down on all her clients. She’d stonewall them until they paid her extra. Most guys in his position didn’t want trouble, so they were susceptible to shakedowns.

  He reached for his wallet, then backhanded her. She fell back against the door in a daze. He leaned over, opened the door, and pushed her out. Her body fell the eight feet, and she landed with a satisfying smack. Larry made sure she’d cleared the tires, then put the truck into gear, and got back on the highway. The euphoria radiated off of him for a full ten minutes afterward. He ruled his kingdom with an iron fist.