The final song went on for about twenty minutes with a long, but very energetic, drum solo. When the lead singer shouted “Thank you,” he tossed a sweat-soaked towel from around his neck into the crowd. A small hand snatched it from the air. The girl on the other end of that hand pulled the rag in close and squealed.
The sudden cessation of music created an odd feeling of calm despite the din from the people in front of the stage. My body stopped pulsating with the bass.
“Max.” Randy exclaimed now that I could hear him, “how’ve you been?”
“Great. You?”
He tossed his hands up in a nonchalant surrender. “What can I say? Livin’ and lovin’.”
“Can I buy you another beer and pick your brain for a minute?” I asked.
“Yes to another beer, but I’m not sure my years have left much brain to pick,” he joked. “Hope you don’t mind the scraps.”
Grinning, I commented, “I think even your scraps will do the job.”
“Come on,” he gestured. “We can find a corner. And that beer.”
We stopped at the same beer stand. “Lexie,” Randy oozed, “I can’t stay away from you.”
Lexie smiled at Randy. “What can I get you, Randy?”
“PBR. And whatever my friend is having.” He added with a wink, “His treat, too.”
“Lucky you,” she said. Her fake smile couldn’t hide her reaction. I guessed it was based on a creepy vibe that Randy gave off.
I dropped a ten into her tip jug and ushered Randy away. Lexie gave an appreciative nod.
He stopped in a corner and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. The aroma of mint floated past me when his lighter went out and he exhaled.
“What’s on your mind, Max?”
“First thing, Randy. I don’t mean to offend you, at all.”
“I don’t get my feelings hurt too often.”
“Good,” I started. “I am looking for a girl…”
He waved his hand in a broad gesture like a car salesman showing off a new car. “You came to the right place,” he joked.
I gave him a small laugh. “No, I think she might be a hooker.”
His eyes narrowed as realization struck. “Oh.”
“Look, you and I have talked before over drinks. I know that you have a little more of a grasp on that in this town than I do. I’m just hoping you can point me in a direction.”
Randy took a drink from his beer can and nodded. “Who is this girl?”
“The daughter of an old friend of mine. She was kidnapped in Cincinnati a year ago. She might not even be in Memphis, but there is a chance.”
“Shit,” he whistled in what seemed like three full syllables. “How old is she?”
“14.”
“What the,” he started. “Max, I don’t do kids.”
“I know that. I’m not saying you do. I just don’t know how I would even go about looking for a prostitute, short of driving every street.”
Randy leaned against the wall of one of the shipping containers. He sucked on his cigarette without a word. I watched him closely.
He exhaled a puff of minty smoke. “I like women. I mean, like grown-ass women.”
I offered an understanding nod.
“You probably need to talk to Mama.”
My face twisted in confusion. “Your mother?”
Randy guffawed. “No. My mother’s dead, thank god. No, Mama. She’s like a den mother to a large selection of girls.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat relieved.
“Mama’s been around forever. I mean, she and I met during the ’70s. She was gorgeous. Still is.”
“Where can I find her?” I asked.
“She has a house off Central Avenue. Not sure I can remember the street. I’ll need to call her.”
Again, I nodded. “Do you mind?”
He dragged another puff off his cigarette. The red end nudging close to the filter. He breathed out as he mashed the smoldering end against the metal wall and flicked the butt to the ground.
Since he was doing me a favor, I decided not to scold him for littering.
“No, given the situation, I’m happy to help. Although, I know that Mama won’t handle that kind of thing. She takes good care of the girls that work for her.”
“Maybe she can help though,” I said. “All I can do is just fumble around until I find something.”
Randy straightened up. “Mama will be a good start. If she doesn’t, one of her girls might.”
“Thanks, Randy.”
6
The house was a three-story turn of the century home sitting upon a small hill. The gingerbread trim and small cupola rounded out the Gothic visage. The small yard was ornately maintained with a rainbow of colors blooming along the house and sidewalk. A wrought-iron gate stood at the end of a walk that lead from the street to the front porch.
“Hookers live nice, don’t they?” Leo commented as we opened the gate and walked up the walkway.
“Maybe don’t call her a hooker,” I suggested. “We need her help.”
“Still,” he said, “it’s a nice place. It makes me question my vocational choices.”
Peering at Leo from the corner of my eyes, I said, “First, you sometimes kill people for a living, and second, you don’t have the figure for it.”
“I’m a soldier,” he said with feigned indignation. “You make me sound like a hit man.”
“Sorry,” I offered.
“Also, my ass is tight,” he quipped.
Pressing my finger against the bell, I noticed a small camera mounted in the top of the porch awning. Leo followed my eyes, and then he gave a subtle head gesture to another camera situated in the bushes.
“I bet there are more. Those are nice and discreet,” Leo said. He added, “And pricey.”
“Wonder if the inside is as well monitored.”
“It certainly lends a sense of security,” he said. “Not to mention, trust.”
I gave him a questioning look. “Trust?”
“If she’s successful, then her clientele knows that any footage recorded will remain private. However, she is equally protected, knowing that her clients don’t want their dirty business spread about.”
“Mutual trust through surveillance?”
He shrugged. “Similar to the idea that an armed society is a polite society.”
The door swung open, revealing a six and a half foot tall man with broad shoulders, firm arms, and maybe a 30-inch waist. I’m rarely self-conscious, but I would have lied if I said I wasn’t somewhat intimidated. And his long, thick hair looked soft and dark.
“Can I help you?” he asked firmly.
“We wanted to speak with Mama,” I said.
He glared at me as if I had done something wrong. “What do you want?”
“I believe Randy Moore called her about us,” I explained.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” he said again. His body moved to block the opening even more.
Leo glanced at me with a smirk. “Why don’t you answer him?”
Leo was not trying to be helpful at all.
“We want to discuss something with her,” I said.
Leo put his hand on my chest and gently pushed me back a step.
“Listen,” Leo said, “my buddy is a connoisseur of, well, women, and he heard that Mama was the top of the heap. Like a Tesla or, maybe, more like a Rolls-Royce.”
Mama’s doorman took a step forward, squaring off against Leo. Since I met Leo, I had seen him take out a handful of guys. Some were quite big, but Mama’s doorman had an intimidation factor that was in the red zone. Leo didn’t flinch, though. He smiled one of those smiles that beg for trouble.
“Malcolm, wait,” a raspy voice behind him said. “I believe these gentlemen think they are being humorous.”
“In truth,” I explained, “only one of us is doing that.”
A stately figure moved up behind Malcolm. Mama was gorgeous. I wasn’t sure what I was expec
ting. The idea that this woman and Randy first met in the ’70s astounded me. She looked in her mid-forties. Her hair was dark brown with subtle hints of red streaming through it. Emerald green eyes and high cheekbones made it hard to look anywhere but her face. That’s not to say that the rest of her was something to ignore. She was slender and curvy in all the places that mattered. If a doctor had done anything to perfect her structure, then his work was so good it wasn’t noticeable.
“You said that Randy called?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m Max Sawyer and this is…”
“Your comedic sidekick?” she quipped.
“Sidekick?’ Leo blurted out.
She stepped around Malcolm and stood inches in front of Leo. Her fingers ran up his bicep and shoulder to touch his cheek.
“A cute sidekick,” she purred. Leo shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t often get taken off-guard, and the woman just knocked his figurative knee out from under him.
Her gaze turned toward me. “Why don’t you come inside Mr. Sawyer?”
Her body pivoted fluidly, and she walked through the door. Malcolm stepped back to permit us to follow. Her heels clicked on the marble floor.
“Randy told me you would be coming to see me. How is that asshole?”
“Still an asshole, I guess,” I answered.
“Figures. He was once an angel,” she said. “Really, that man would do anything for me. We go back a long ways.”
She came to a stop in front of a small camel-back sofa. Her hand unfolded as she directed us to sit. She took a seat in a chair opposite us and gracefully crossed her legs. Her eyes studied Leo for an extra second.
“Tell me, Mr. Sidekick, have you ever even driven a Rolls-Royce?”
“Ma’am,” he said with a wry smile, having recovered from her initial contact, “I’ve driven everything.”
“Everything?” she asked shrewdly. “I like the sound of that.”
“Have you ever driven a tank?” Leo asked with a grin.
“Baby, who wants something that can’t handle the speed and the curves?”
I laughed out loud.
Leo gave me a glance and commented, “It’s not the speed. It’s the sheer force of will and ability to keep going.”
Mama’s green eyes sparkled when she responded, “I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe, Mr. Sidekick, you can come back and visit me.”
“Mama,” Leo beamed, “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Oedipal complexes aside, why don’t you call me Alice? ‘Mama’ is more what the girls call me.”
I interrupted the two of them. “Did Randy tell you what I’m looking for?”
Mama turned her head toward me, but I felt like she was still staring at Leo from the corner of her eyes. “Randy is more discreet than that. However, the fact that he sent you to me at all piques my curiosity. Before we venture farther down this path, are you associated with law enforcement.”
“Not at all,” I answered.
Her gaze returned to Leo. He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Unless you count some time being a guest of a handful of sheriffs and police departments across this country.”
She let her eyes linger on Leo an extra second. “I imagine you are quite a troublemaker, Mr. Sidekick.”
“I’m looking for a young girl,” I told her. “She was kidnapped in Cincinnati and possibly brought to Memphis.”
A scowl formed on her face. “How old was she?”
“Thirteen when she was taken. That was a year ago.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t deal in that. My girls are all over eighteen, and they work voluntarily.
“According to Randy, you are above the board,” I assured her. “Or as above the board as you can be.”
She relaxed her stance.
“He merely thought you might aim us in the right direction.”
“Why are you looking for this girl?” she asked.
“Her father was a friend. He came down from Cincinnati this week to look for her. Someone killed him in a motel off Summer.”
“Which one?” she asked.
“Which motel?”
She nodded.
“The Siesta.”
Standing to her feet, she asked, “Would either of you like a drink?”
A small bar was built into the corner of the room. Mama stepped behind it and began dropping ice cubes in a tumbler.
“Yes,” I said, “a bourbon if you have one.”
Lifting a bottle, she showed me an Angel’s Envy Single Barrel.
“And for you Mr. Sidekick. I’m guessing something with a long neck.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Leo said.
Her attention turned toward the drinks.
“The Siesta Motel is owned by Bandhul Tak. He’s an immigrant from India. I’ve heard that he left India in something of a hurry. He has connections with Elon Manning. I think Manning might have sponsored Tak when he arrived.”
“Who is Elon Manning?” I asked.
“Manning is trash. A glorified pimp. Exactly the kind of thug I got away from.”
Mama walked toward us holding two crystal tumblers. She extended the drinks to each of us. We thanked her and lifted the glasses in gratitude.
She continued, “Manning owns several gentlemen’s clubs. Those are his legitimate businesses. He, also runs almost all of the girls on the street. At least, he gets a percentage from the pimps. Freelancers usually end up the victim of some urban crime.”
Disgust washed over Leo’s face when he took a sip. Mama returned to her seat with her cocktail.
“You don’t like an Amaretto Sour?” she asked playfully.
He swallowed and took another drink. “No, it was a little sweet for me at first, but I like it,” he lied.
“This Tak. You think he works for Manning?”
“He definitely does. At least he swears fealty to him.”
Sipping my bourbon, I probed a little more. “Does Manning run underage girls?”
“Oh, honey, yeah. They get shuffled around the city so that the cops don’t get familiar with them. He uses them up and I don’t even want to know what he does with them.”
“Does he take them all like Naomi?” Leo asked.
“Naomi? Is that her name?”
“Yeah,” I affirmed.
“Not all of them. Most of the girls on the streets are addicts and runaways. What happens is some guy shows up in a girl’s life. He slowly separates her from her family, usually with drugs and sex. Makes himself her world. Maybe convinces her to leave home, but not always. Some of those girls on the street still go home to Mommy and Daddy, who have no idea what she’s doing.
“The trick is to push the line a little farther until the girls realize they have no choice. Or at least, they think they have no choice.”
My lip curled with repulsion. Humans have a way of doing the worst to each other. Usually to the most innocent.
“What about these stories of kids grabbed up? Is that common?”
“That’s hard to say,” she answered. “But it does happen. What I’ve heard is that is more like a specific desire.”
Leo drank the rest of his Amaretto Sour and placed the glass on the table beside him. “Specific desire?” he questioned.
“Like a mail-order bride,” Mama said. “Someone wants a girl with freckles and red hair. Maybe braces. Then, someone fills that order.”
“Where the hell does one order a girl like that?” I stammered at the depravity.
“That I don’t know,” she said. “I would wager a guess that it’s online, but I really don’t know. There are some sub-cultures in society where this might be more common. I tend to only deal with people who just want some companionship and can balance that with a certain expense.”
“A good service at a good price,” Leo offered.
Mama responded, “And it’s all consensual.”
“If you were guessing,” I asked, “would Elon Manning know about this kind of thing?”
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Blood and Roses Page 4
