The man that sauntered through the front door filled the door frame.He wore a tight afro and a manicured beard. His Oakland Raiders jacket was an off-blue, almost the color that the Seattle Seahawks wore.He cruised in with a cane in his left hand, though I saw no sign of a limp.He didn’t wear a hat, but I guess I got my wish for pimp attire with that cane. And who knows? Maybe the handle screwed off and he kept his stash of dope inside.
He made his way to the corner booth.I watched his reflection in the cracked and smoke-dimmed glass behind the bar.The hooker cocked her hip at him as he approached.The skinny kid was out of the booth and standing five feet away. I was willing to bet that he’d been there before the front door was even half-way open.
“Hey, baby!” the girl said.“I been waitin’ for you.”
“Whattaya got for me, bitch?” the pimp said when he’d reached her. Despite his choice of words, his voice was affectionate.
There was a quick, almost invisible transfer from her hand to his.The move would have become habit between them, so much second nature that even in this safe haven, it was how she handed off her earnings.
“Shit,” he said, eyeing the fold of cash.“You are one earning bitch, baby!”He slapped her on the ass with a massive hand, then kept it there, kneading her buttock.The hooker all but purred.
“Usual, Rolo?” The bartender asked, reaching for a bottle.
“Inna minute,” Rolo told him and slid into the booth with his back to the wall.The hooker slid in next to him and nestled her head onto his shoulder.He whispered to her briefly and a sultry smile came over her face.She slid down and disappeared beneath the table.
Rolo nodded to the skinny kid, who went to the jukebox and inserted a dollar.I averted my eyes from both of them, ignored the wet sounds that were coming from beneath the table and almost echoing throughout the quiet bar.I wished that the old man would have one of his coughing fits.
Rap music blared through the speakers a moment later.It was only marginally better than listening to the suck sounds the hooker had been making under the table.I figured the song was earlier rap, as there was still some semblance of a melody.Then I realized it was a bastardization of one of the songs from Saturday Night Fever.
I kept my eyes fixed on the bottle of Molson Canadian and tried to watch everything out of the corner of my eye.The skinny kid took up a position leaning against the wall with his back to Rolo.The bartender, who had been a statue except for popping my two bottles and stealing my money, suddenly began cleaning glasses with his back to the corner where Rolo was getting serviced.Only the old man remained unchanged, sitting still except to sip or puff or cough.
Rolo clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back, closing his eyes.I cast furtive glances at him in the mirror every minute or so, watching for the hooker’s head to pop up from under the table like a prairie dog.
The scratching and thumping rendition of the disco song ended and there was a painful moment of silence, punctuating by a low, growling moan from Rolo.I focused on the squeaking sound the bartender made as he cleaned the glasses behind the bar.Another song poured from the jukebox.This one I recognized as an older song, some classic soul singer from an eon ago.
I took another sip of beer, studying the bottle but not seeing it.A gnawing doubt was growing in my stomach, asking if this was really such a great idea.You’d think a beer or two would help shore up a guy’s courage and resolve any nagging doubts.But the longer I sat there, the more I worried and the soul singer’s smooth voice did little to sooth my concern.
Relax, I told myself as I read the import information on the beer bottle.He’s a pimp, not a gangster.That means he’s in it for the money.He’s a businessman.
I shrugged off my worries and took another sip of Molson.What else was I supposed to do?If I wandered up and down Sprague showing Kris’s picture to hookers, Rolo would come see me sooner or later, anyway. Except that meeting would definitely be unfriendly.Or I’d get stopped by a patrolman which was not something I wanted to deal with, either.
This might not be a great idea, but it was a better option than any other one I had.Other than maybe calling up Matt Sinderling and telling him I quit.
As the song faded, the skinny kid appeared at my side. He flicked my shoulder with the back of his first two fingers.
“Yo,” he said.“The man wants to know who you are.”
I looked at him and then over my shoulder at Rolo.The hooker sat next to him rubbing her jaw and drinking water.He ignored her and stared directly at me.I couldn’t read his expression at that distance in the dim light.
The kid tapped me again.“Hey, you hear me?”
I returned my gaze to the kid and was suddenly furious at him.I hated his North Carolina shirt, his baggy pants and his floppy shoes.Most of all, I hated the smug look on his face.
“Yeah, I heard you,” I said in a low voice.“And if you tap me like that again, you’ll be finished using those fingers for a while.”
The kid looked surprised and before he could recover, I slid off the bar stool with my beer in hand and brushed past him.There was a rustle of movement behind me and Rolo’s hand rose up off the table in a “hold it” gesture.The rustling stopped.
The sounds of another rock song re-made as rap filled the bar.I put my beer on Rolo’s table.He stared at it like it was a giant turd.Then I slid into the booth across from him and looked him directly in the eye.
“I didn’t say you could sit there,” he said.
“I know.”
He raised an eyebrow.“Bitch, you’d be making a big mistake if you plan on playing with me.”
“I don’t plan on making any mistakes,” I said.“Hopefully, we can help each other out.”
Rolo studied me carefully.He moved his lips slowly, pulling them inside his mouth, wetting them and then pursing them out with a high-pitched sucking sound.His eyes bore into me and for the first time I saw the mean intelligence in them.Urban accent or no, career choice or no, Rolo was not a stupid man.
“I know you?” he finally asked.
I shook my head.“No.”
He nodded, acknowledging my answer but still studying my features.“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.I’d definitely remember you.”
Rolo broke into a practiced grin, but shades of it were genuine.“I guess that’s true, ain’t it? I am one unforgettable motherfucker.”
I didn’t answer, letting him stroke himself.
His grin faded slightly.“You said we could help each other out.”
“Yeah.I think so.”
“I think we both know what I can do to help you out,” he said, giving the hooker next to him a nudge and a tip of his head.“But you can get that straight off the street.”
“True.”
“But you came in here.And sat at my motherfuckin’ table.”
I nodded.
Rolo leaned forward slightly, motioning me to do the same.Our faces were less than an inch apart.I could smell his odor and his cologne.That close, I heard his slightly labored breathing.
“So what is it you think you can do for me?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
I pushed back.“I need a little information.That’s all.And I’ll pay for it.”
Rolo’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back, crossing his massive arms in front of him.I saw his street intelligence go to work behind his eyes.He nudged the hooker.“Rhonda,” he said, “Go fix your hair.And rinse out your mouth before you come back here kissing on me.”
Rhonda showed no sign of hurt and slid immediately from the bar, walking toward the bathroom.
Rolo went back to working his lips, looking at me and thinking.Then he said, “What do you wanna know, white boy?”