"The bear can't leave the woods just 'cause he knows it's hunting season."
155
LATE THAT NIGHT, in bed.
"Do you know why they do it?"
"They?"
"Perverts, freaks, degenerates…whatever you want to call them." Her face was soft, little-girl questions in her eyes. But I felt the long muscles tense in her thigh, testing. Pushing the buttons, watching the screen.
"What'd your mother call them?" Testing back.
"If they liked to play dress-up, harmless stuff like that…she called them customers. Clients. Somebody wanted to really whale on a woman, really hurt her, he'd know better than to come to my mother's house."
I lit a smoke, buying time. "One way you can tell a country's gone real evil…when the doctors are working the torture chambers. Telling the sadists how much a prisoner can take before he checks out completely. You know what a snuff film is?"
"I heard of them. Just rumors."
"They're no rumors. And they didn't start a couple of years ago. A guy I met in Africa told me the Shah of Iran had video cameras in his torture chambers. Idi Amin too. Why do you think Hitler's freaks kept the cameras rolling? There's always been people who get off on pain. Other people's pain. And people who like to watch."
"Everybody has that in them?"
"No. Hell, no. But some do. And we keep breeding them. Monsters."
"Not criminals?"
"Past criminals. I'm a criminal, Blossom. My buddy Pablo, he's a doctor too. A psychiatrist. I asked him once, what I was. He said I'm a contrabandista. An outlaw, you understand?"
She sat up, hands clasping her knees. "Not like them. And not like us either, huh?"
I thought of Virgil, his family. Who's "us" anymore?
"Right on the borderline," I told her.
156
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, on my way to Virgil's, the car phone made its noise.
"What?"
"Place your bets, I'm on the set."
"Prof?"
"No, fool, it's Jesse Jackson."
"Is the thing ready?"
"Have no fear, your ride is here."
"Here?"
"Time to jump, chump. Boston Street, northbound from Thirty-ninth. Cruise it slow, lights down low. When the honeybees swarm, you found the farm. Ask for Cherry."
157
VIRGIL SAT NEXT to me in the Lincoln, Lloyd in the back seat. "He's really here?"
"Must be. Said to take Boston Street, northbound from Thirty-ninth."
"Boston Street? There's no Boston Street anywhere around here."
"He said to see a hooker. Cherry."
"He's holed up in Cal City maybe?"
"On the stroll, Virgil. A street girl. Where'd they be, close by?"
"Off Broadway, I guess." He dragged on his cigarette, thinking. "Ah, he has to mean Massachusetts Street. Over in Glen Park. Make a left up there."
The sun didn't reach all the way to street level on Massachusetts. Three-story frame houses leaned against each other for comfort. A slow-moving line of cars worked its way up the block. I drifted over to the curb. A flock of girls descended: spandex pants, tube tops, high heels. Working.
I pushed the power window switch, letting them know I was the man to talk to. Ebony woman with long straight hair, lipstick slashed carelessly across her mouth, leaned into the car, unbound breasts slopping against the windowsill. Up close, the hair was a wig.
"I don't do triples, honey. Your friends want to wait their turn, or I can ask a couple of my girlfriends along? Whatever you say, anyway you want to do it."
"I'm looking for Cherry. Wasn't that her that just went by? Girl in a red leather coat?"
"Yeah, catch Cherry wearing somethin' that'd cover her ass. Fat chance, get it?" She blew smoke airily at the night ceiling. "Cherry? Cherry ain't nothin', man. Whatever you heard 'bout her, you can double up for me."
They all sing the same sad song.
"How much is the ride?" I asked her.
"How far you want to drive, honey? Around the world?" And they all use the same lyrics.
"Short time," I said, looking for the quickest way in.
"Twenty-five."
"Bring Cherry to the car, I'll give you twenty."
"I don't see no cash."
"I don't see no Cherry."
They came back together. Cherry was shorter, stockier. Her wig was blonde.
"Hi, honey! You lookin' for me?"
"If you're Cherry."
"That's me, baby. You heard about me, huh?"
"I'm looking for a friend. Your friend. He'd of told you I was coming."
"Oh yeah. He's right…"
"Tell me his name."
"You mean the Prophet, don't ya? Yeah! An ugly white man would come to set me free…Wow! Just like he said."
I handed the other girl a pair of tens. She moved into the line of whores working the other cars. Cherry got into the back seat. Virgil took one whiff, pushed his own window down. Lloyd sat across from her, watching like he'd seen E.T. up close.
Cherry told me where to drive. One block up, a right turn into an alley. ROOMS, the wooden sign said, hanging lopsided over a door to a house that looked older than greed. I followed her inside, Lloyd behind me, Virgil last. Up a flight of stairs. We were the only whites in the joint. We watched their hands, looking for the truth.
Voices from an open door at the end of the hall. A pimp's sandpaper voice on top.
"I don't give a fuck who you say you is or what you say you want, you midget motherfucker. You don't come in here and work no girls. This is my place. Now you get your black ass outta here or I cut a piece of it off!"
We stepped inside. Burly thug with a shaved head, dressed all in white leather right down to his cowboy boots. Holding a straight razor in his hand.
The Prof was seated in a ragged armchair, wrapped in a khaki raincoat tenting around his tiny body. As calm as a man watching a movie— one he'd seen before. The pimp stepped aside as we entered, dropping into a slight crouch.
"Hey, schoolboy," the Prof greeted me. "You got a pistol with you?"
"Sure," I told him, taking it out.
"Good. Now will you please shoot this stupid farmer before he cuts someone?"
"Okay," I replied, cocking the piece.
"Hey, man…"
Virgil moved his coat. The sawed-off shotgun eyed the pimp.
"Oh, man. You remembered!" the Prof said. Like it was his brand of beer. He turned to the pimp. "You see how it is, fool. A knife don't make it right, but a gun can make it fun."
The pimp pocketed his razor, slid toward the door, his eyes filled with wonder. He'd seen guns before…but a tiny black man with a preacher's voice who used hillbillies for enforcers was science fiction. The legend of the Prophet was due for another installment.
We didn't block his path, letting him go. I tracked his face, making sure he knew I'd remember him.
Nobody had to tell him. Don't come back.
158
IN THE LINCOLN, the Prof barked directions like he'd lived in that maze all his life. We parked in a row of garages. Cherry jumped out, opened a padlock. A shocking-purple car with a long, low hood and a black vinyl top stood inside. The Prof handed me a set of keys. We all climbed out.
"This is it?" I asked him.
"You can take that tank to the bank, bro'. It'll stop what he's got. Papers in the glove box."
"I'll meet you back at the house," I told Virgil. "Give me the scattergun, case you get stopped."
He handed it over.
Cherry turned to the Prof. "You not comin'?"
"You go back to the room, beautiful. Wait for me. Stay off the streets tonight." To me: "Give her a yard, pard."
I handed her two fifties. She took it, a reluctant look on her face. "You really comin' back?"
"Woman, have I said one word to you that has not been the truth?" the Prof snapped out at her, switching to his preacher's voice. "Do not confuse me with panderers and pimps, child. What I say shall come to pass, for it is written that children of the night shall forever find each other in the dark."