by Jeff Gelb
What’s that? Oh, yeah! They’re gorgeous-looking! You wouldn’t believe them, all made up and dressed in glitter and spandex and legs like you never saw. They stand around on the corners competing with the crack dealers for attention as the cars drive by. They come out at night, yeah, just like the rats. Just like me, ha.
Well, I drove the Murdocks over there for a look, thinking that either they’d get pissed and that would be the end of it, or they’d get a kick out of the Crater circus. I’ve picked up my share of rich types, and one thing I’ve found out: Kicks are hard to find when you’ve got tons of dough. They get bored when they can have anything whenever they want it, right? So what the hell, I took a shot.
As it turned out, the Murdocks love the Crater. They made me circle through the area for hours, and let me tell you, when you drive slow through the Crater in a brand-new Black Car, you arouse some interest from the locals. Christ, the hookers and the dealers were all but chasing us around the block. They can smell money, you know.
The Murdocks stared and gawked and gave each other long looks, asked a lot of questions. I told them about the transvestites’ business, how they took their clients into the alleys and abandoned buildings, and sometimes the johns came back out in body bags. Screams and gunshots are night music around there. The residents don’t even bother calling the cops anymore. The cops won’t come. What’s the point, right? I made the Murdocks keep the doors locked, of course; it’s dangerous as hell in the Crater after dark. Yeah, stabbings and shootings and all that kind of stuff. Bad place. The yuppies stay shut up in their houses behind barred windows once the sun goes down. But for several hundred bucks, man, I’m willing to hang tough for a few hours, know what I mean?
Nothing much happened that first night with the Murdocks. At five the next morning, I took them back to the Willard and they paid me. Five hundred and forty bucks. Doubled the fare, can you believe it? Just like I’d heard. And then they booked me for the following Saturday night. The Crater’s kink business hit the target dead-on. The Murdocks were mine.
How’re you doing back there, Mr. Winslow? Warm enough? Good. Sleep, huh? Yeah, the rain and the wipers are kind of hypnotic, aren’t they? God, I love driving in the rain. Slicks away all the ugly, know what I mean?
It was raining the second Saturday night when I picked up the Murdocks, too. Raining like hell. They carried a couple of big leather satchels with them and I stowed them in the trunk. I was afraid the weather might drive the Crater sex and drug circus indoors, but those hookers and dealers, they’re hard cases, I’m telling you. They had their corners covered like always. It was just like being in an old forties film that night, the dealers all slouched down in trenchcoats and snap-brims, the hookers hawking their skinny bods through transparent plastic umbrellas. Streetlamps puddled lights on wet asphalt, traffic lights blinked through the downpour. Weird. Surreal, like Mr. Murdock said.
We eased through the district for about an hour, up one street, down the next, through the alleyways. Caught a hooker and his john in the headlights. They were busy doing commerce up against the wall of an old abandoned building. Didn’t even look up at us. That’s the attitude in the Crater. Nobody gives a shit. The Murdocks didn’t say anything either, but I glanced at them in the rearview mirror. They were smiling.
While we rolled around the Crater in the rain, Mr. Murdock told me that he and his wife were from somewhere in Europe, don’t ask me where. Said they were in the custom furnishings business, that his family had been making chairs and sofas and stuff for centuries. Very exclusive clientele, royalty and the ultra-rich, you know. I asked him how much his cheapest piece would cost me. A hundred grand, he says. Can you imagine? Hope it’s made of gold, I said. Christ.
So anyway, we drove around and around, past the same hookers and dealers who were getting a little pissed with all our looking and no buying. Want some crack? a dealer on a prime corner shouted at s. What the fuck’s up, man? he said. Disgusted, right. Gotta make that living. Mr. Murdock told me to keep going, so I did. On and on. He and his wife nearly had their noses mashed against the back window, gawking. They whispered back and forth and I watched them in the rearview. I got the message quick that it was the hookers that interested them, not the dealers.
So all of a sudden this leggy black guy in a white curly wig and glitter makeup runs right out in front of the car and whips open his shiny plastic raincoat. Nothing but a red sequin G-string on underneath. I had to slam on the brakes. Nearly slid right into the bastard; couldn’t have missed him by more than a foot. He came running up to the Murdocks’ window, all girly and breathless, and tapped a three-inch plastic fingernail against the glass. Open the window, Mr. Murdock told me, so I buzzed it down halfway. Hookers have blades in those big pocketbooks they carry, you better believe it.
I’m Tina, the hooker said in this weird, cotton-candy high-pitched voice. Wanna date? he/she asked, flipping these big fake eyelashes all crusty with silver glitter. A real hot little number, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing.
Well, Tina trotted in place, bending over at the window, red spike heels clattering on the wet pavement. C’mon, she kept saying, be a sport. I’ll do ya both, she told the Murdocks. I’ll do ya both real good, sucking and smacking those big frosty lips, you know, putting on a real show to clinch the deal.
And it worked. Mr. Mudock opened the back door and let Tina into the car. I didn’t like that much. Never know what kind of crud those hookers might be infected with, right? But hell, I’m making plenty of cash, so who am I to complain? I just put the car in gear and started rolling. Jesus, Tina was all over them, rubbing and smooching and slobbering, so Mr. Murdock pushed her back in a gentle way and started asking questions like where and how much and so forth. Tina batted those while eyelashes and told me to kill the headlights and pull back through an alleyway off of 10th Street and drop them at the entrance to a big hulking cavern of a burned-out church back there. Huge stone building that looked a thousand years old. Mr. Murdock asked me to pop the trunk as he and his wife and Tina got out of the car, and they picked up their satchels and disappeared into the rain.
I didn’t like sitting alone in that dark, wet alleyway, I can tell you. A big dirty rat loped across the road right next to the car dragging some kind of dead animal through the dirt. Nasty. Christ, you can’t imagine what might be lurking out there in the dark in that kind of place, you know? And the rain kept coming down, plunking on the roof, visibility zero. I hit the auto-lock key. The Murdocks could damn well bang on the door when they wanted back in, I decided. I wasn’t going to get my damn throat cut.
I kept wondering as I sat there in the dark, waiting, what the hell do people like the Murdocks want with a fifteen-buck transvestite hooker when they can afford the classiest call girls and gigolos in D.C.? Kicks, I figure. Thrills, right?
Mr. Winslow? You awake? Oh. I thought you’d fallen asleep back there.
Well, about an hour or so after I let Tina and the Murdocks out, I heard a man screaming somewhere out in the night. I had the windows shut tight, so I can’t tell where the screams came from, but man, I started to get nervous. Real nervous. I glanced at the dash clock. After midnight. I decided that if they didn’t come back in another fifteen minutes I’d blow the horn and wait another five. Then screw it, I was out of there, dough or no dough. Can’t make a living if I get stabbed or shot to death, right?
But ten minutes later, here they come, running through the rain carrying their satchels. Just the two of the, Mr. Murdock and Mrs. Murdock. No sign of Tina, naturally. That’s the way it usually goes. After everybody gets their jollies, the hooker splits for the curbside again pronto. Gotta make that living, right? Get right back at it.
I popped the lock and the Murdocks piled into the backseat, dragging their stachels in behind them. They seemed happy; Mrs. Murdock’s usually pale skin was all flushed and pink. She looked beautiful, young, eyes all glittery like Tina’s makeup. Excited. Mr. Murdock told me to drive them back to
the Willard, and I slid out of that black alley like Cisco Crisco, slow and easy.
Well, I wheeled it out of the Crater and delivered the Murdocks back at the hotel at a quarter to one. Shit, I thought, not much dough tonight. But Mr. Murdock lays a thou’ on me. My eyeballs almost fall outta my head, right? I can depend on your discretion, can’t I, Mr. McClung? Mr. Murdock said. You betcha, I told him. I can be plenty discreet for a grand, I’m telling you. Less than five hours’ work, too. Christ.
As they left, Mr. Murdock told me they had some business that would take them out of town the following week, but he wanted to book me for the week after. Great, I said, sure. So two weeks later we went back to the Crater and picked up another vestie hooker, same type, tall and leggy, young and slender. Light cocoa color. The Murdocks seem to be turned on by skin color, right? Look, Agatha, Mr. Murdock told his wife while he pawed over the hooker, what lovely texture. So soft. Then Mrs. Murdock started rubbing the guy’s chest and legs, too. Kinda made me sick. Not to my taste, you know. I got different ideas about kicks. But hell, I drove them over to the burned-out church again and they went off to do their weird thing, then I took them back to the Willard. I make my thousand and everybody’s happy.
Well, this goes on every other Saturday night for about ten weeks, and then things change. Things always change, right? Mr. Murdock told me he had a business proposition to discuss. My ears perk right up because I’m an ambitious kinda guy, and I’m always game for more dough.
You okay back there, Mr. Winslow? You look a little sick. Yeah, I thought you looked kinda pale. We’re almost there. You want me to go one with the story? Okay.
So anyway, Mr. Murdock tells me he’s interested in younger men, you know, adolescents. Yeah, he’s a chicken hawk, wants a little chicken. That’s what they call the under-age male hookers: chickens. Well, I knew right where to take the Murdocks, just a couple of blocks over from where we picked up the vesties, right? We cruised a while and Mr. Murdock located a tall, good-looking blond kid in a pair of low-slung jeans and no shirt. Lifted weights, you could tell right off. Muscular, you know. Kinda like yourself, Mr. Winslow, wide shoulders, good body, good tone. Except that the kid’s arms were all tracked up from popping junk. But you’re going to find that on pretty much all the chickens or else they wouldn’t be out there hustling. That’s what I told Mr. Murdock. He didn’t like the needle tracks, but he invited the boy into the backseat anyway.
The kid was clever, you could see it in his eyes. Before he hopped into the car, he checked out the Murdocks and me real good. Wary as a tomcat, this kid. Been around, you could tell. Once he was in the car, he smiled at the Murdocks, big green-eyed cat grin, sneering. What’s your pleasure? he asked Mr. Murdock, and Mr. Murdock leaned forward and told me to take them to the regular place, meaning the abandoned church.
Hey, the kid said, I thought we were going to do this right here in the car, man. Mr. Murdock didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead while we rolled toward that dark tunnel of an alleyway. No! the kid yelled, starting to panic, I don’t work this way, man! Calm down, Mr. Murdock told the kid, there’s no reason to get excited.
Well, the kid started to open the door and Mr. Murdock grabbed him by the back of his neck and whacked his head up against the door post hard. Blood covered the side of the kid’s face and he looked around, stunned, like a shot dog, you know? Not his face, Alton! Mrs. Murdock hollered. Don’t ruin his face! Mr. McClung, Mr. Murdock called to me as he was struggling with the boy, I need your help, Mr. McClung.
I didn’t like it one bit, let me tell you, but the Murdocks are my best customers, so I turned around and conked the kid on the top of his head with my portable credit-card imprinter and he dropped like a scak of potatoes. Bam, out cold. Open the trunk and help me carry him up to the building, Mr. Murdock said, so I popped the trunk, then got out and slung the kid over my shoulder. While the Murdocks got their satchels, I locked the car up. Hated the idea of leaving it in that dark alley untended. Who knew if it would even be there when I got back?
So I followed the Murdocks through the dark up to that church, right? I was so damned worried about my car that I didn’t even think about what kind of weird shit the Murdocks had in mind, I just walked behind them carrying the kid through the weeds and the trash. Christ, that building was dark. All echoey and creepy inside, you know? Mr. Murdock flicked on a little penlight to light the way. Rats and roaches and big hairy spiders skittered away from the light as we moved down what I supposed was the aisle between the pews, although all the pews and fixtures got ripped off a long time ago. Just a big room with high ceilings and a filthy plank floor littered with used condoms and liquor bottles. Nice joint, huh? The Church of Twisted Scenes, ha.
So Mr. Murdock told me to drop the kid in the corner of a little room behind what used to be the altar. The kid was moaning, starting to come around. I asked Mr. Murdock what else he wanted me to do, and he said just to go on back to the car and wait for them. I was glad to be getting out of there, let me tell you, and I turned to leave as fast as I could. As I headed for the doorway, I saw Mrs. Murdock kneeling over one of the big leather satchels. She spread a white cloth on the floor next to a couple of pairs of rubber aprons and gloves and was busy laying out what looked like doctor’s tools: scalpels and drills and dental picks and stuff.
Well, let me tell you, I hustled out of that place and back to my car, which was waiting in the alley in once piece, thank God. A miracle. I locked myself in and sat waiting for the Murdocks, trying to ignore the screams that came from the church. Hey, nobody notices screams in the Crater. Just a little night music.
So anyway, about an hour later I see the Murdocks coming back to the car, and I noticed that their satchels looked a lot fuller than they had earlier. Sides all bulged out, you know? And they felt heavier than when I stowed them in the trunk the first time. Smelled funny, too. Like biology lab in high school. Ugh.
When we got back to the Willard, Mr. Murdock laid two grand on me and patted my shoulder. Good man, he said. I know I can trust you, Mr. McClung. I suppose you understand about our little business now, don’t you? he asked me. Yeah, I said, I guess I do. We like to mix business with pleasure when we can, he said with a weird smile. Fine, I told him. It’s okay by me.
What was that, Mr. Winslow? I can hardly hear you. You’re slurring your words real bad. Huh? Oh, yeah, you’re right. This isn’t your girlfriend’s house. We’re going to make a little stop. Uh-huh. Right. This is the Crater. No, now don’t get upset, I know you’re having trouble moving and talking. It’s the stuff the Murdocks gave me to put in the cognac. It’s to relax you.
What? Yeah, I know it’s dark. This is the alley I was telling you about. See the old abandoned church over there? Wait a second and I’ll come around and get you.
Here you go. Just let me get you up on my shoulder and lock the door. It’s okay if you holler. Nobody’s going to come. Nobody cares. I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Winslow, but I gotta make a living, right? You’re not much of a tipper, to be perfectly honest, and you’ve got just the kind of skin the Murdocks are looking for. They’re in the custom furnishings business, like I told you, and they produce their own leather—the most supple and exotic leather in the world, right? Get their kicks and their rare skin at the same time.
Me, I got a two-thousand-dollar-a-week coke habit. That’s why I’m so talkative, I guess. Cocaine does seem to go right to my yapper. Keeps me hopping for dough, let me tell you, and the Murdocks keep me rolling in the high numerals.
So, here we are. Business is business.
What’s that? No, your girlfriend’s not going to tell anybody anything. I’m going over there right now to tell her that you want me to transport her to a little rendezvous with you, which is true. She knows me from all those times I drove you both to dinner and back, remember? I’m going to bring her here to the Murdocks, too. She’s got a great complexion, Christ. Maybe the Murdocks will save you for later and her first so you can
watch them peel her alive. They’d really get off on that. That’s probably how it’ll go.
Okay, I’m going to let you down now. Can’t sit up against the wall here? All right, just slump forward, it doesn’t matter.
Here come to the Murdocks now.
Hey, Mr. Murdock, Mrs. Murdock. He’s the one I’ve been telling you about. Yeah, he’s prime, isn’t he? Wait’ll you see the girlfriend. She’s a beaut. Huh? Right. Twenty grand for the both of them. They’ll make you a nice sofa and chair, ha.
Well, Mr. Winslow, it’s been nice doing business with you, but I’ve gotta get back on the road now, pick up your sweetie. And I’ll send your wife my card if they ever find your body. You being a veteran and all, she’ll probably plant you right here in Arlington Cemetery. I do funeral processions, too, you know.
Yeah, gotta make a living first and foremost.
Right?
Author Biographies
John Edward Ames
Ames lives in Louisiana and has written short stories and articles for Borderlands 3, Midnight Graffiti, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and The Writer. His novels include The Force, Spellcaster, and Death Crystal.
