Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Lorraine walked in holding her hands above her head. “I’m alone, mister, just let her go and you and me can talk.”

  The man pushed the girl down to the floor, grinning crazily as he lifted the knife. “It’s too late, no talk now, no more talk.”

  Lorraine stood still, never flinching when he switched the knife from his right to his left hand, then snatched a gun from his belt and pointed it at her. She stood still, without taking her eyes off him. “It’s never too late to talk. Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?”

  “They kick me out my place, they take my kids, they got no right to do that, I work hard, I pay my taxes, they got no right, I—”

  Rooney’s partner fired first, then Dullay. The bullet blew the back of the Mexican’s skull apart, his blood and brains splattering Lorraine, his body falling over the sobbing waitress.

  Rooney was talking to Dullay as Lorraine approached him. “There was no need to kill him,” she said flatly.

  Rooney had glared at her. “He would have used this. You got a complaint?” He had shoved the dead Mexican’s gun under her nose.

  “No,” she said quietly. “No complaint.”

  Rooney was still thinking about her when he let himself into his house an hour later. He called out to his wife, then remembered she’d gone to see her sister or cousin. He hadn’t paid much attention to what she had said, he rarely did. She had left his dinner in a covered dish with a small note to say how long he should leave it in the microwave. He opened a bottle of beer. It was a warm night and he didn’t feel hungry. He had two more beers while he sat outside on the porch in his shirt-sleeves. He remembered Lubrinski and thought about Lorraine. He was sure there had been something going on between them. They were real close, used to drink together after duty. Thinking of the dark, handsome officer, Rooney felt sad. He was one of the best he’d ever come across, bit of a loner but a real man’s man. When Rooney had partnered Lorraine with him, he had expected fireworks, but instead, she and Lubrinski had formed one of the strongest teams he’d ever had. He wished he had a twosome like them with him now, but they only come once in a blue moon. Page and Lubrinski, chalk and cheese and yet … He felt hungry now and went inside to figure out the microwave.

  Lorraine kept on walking after seeing Rooney. She walked from Holly Street, passing the empty art gallery, a for-rent sign in the window. She was heading for home but then suddenly decided against it. She took a bus to west of Sunset Boulevard and got off at San Vicente Boulevard, then walked slowly south down Santa Monica Boulevard. She passed a few clubs she knew—Revolver’s, Mickey’s, Denny’s, Mama Colls—getting closer to the stripper and hooker hangouts. She stopped outside a coffee bar with a few tables planted on the dirty street. Bibi’s. She looked up and down, trying to remember the known transvestites’ pickup joints, then headed to Cahuenga. She was looking for Nula or Didi but couldn’t find them and eventually went up to a Hispanic hooker with a sequined top and leather miniskirt. She was stoned and halfheartedly checking the johns passing in their cars. Lorraine smiled and took out her cigarette pack.

  “Hi, how ya doin’? I need to see Curtis, I gotta pay him off, you know where he is?”

  The hooker took the cigarette, bit off the filter, and with glazed eyes shrugged. When Lorraine lit the cigarette for her, she inhaled and wafted her hand.

  “Try the Bar Q farther up the strip, back aways. He don’t run this area.”

  The bar was dark, with music so loud it was deafening. There were only a few customers dotted around, none Lorraine knew, so she sat at the bar and ordered a Coke.

  “How you doing?” The black bartender smiled. “Haven’t seen you in a long while.”

  Lorraine grinned. “Is Curtis out back?”

  “Yeah, he’s got a game going.”

  Lorraine could see a few men in the small poolroom. She strolled in and stood sipping the Coke, watching Curtis play with three other dudes in snazzy suits and flash ties. Printed silk was the rage among pimps, reminiscent of Mickey Spillane. She knew better than to interrupt, but Curtis looked up suddenly. “You want me, sugar?”

  “When you got a second.”

  Curtis chalked his cue. As she moved away, he asked one of the players, “Who’s that?”

  The man couldn’t put a name to the face. Curtis continued the game.

  Lorraine went back to the bar and ordered another Coke. A few more customers had drifted in and a bleached blonde with heavy breasts was perched on an end stool, talking to a boy in leather. She was at least forty, her tight leather skirt up around her crotch. He was leaning forward as if hanging on her every word, but his eyes were focused on her deep cleavage. Her breasts were pushed up by an underwire bra and burst through the clinging Lycra. Lorraine was almost amused watching the old pro at work. Every move was sexual—she didn’t even reach for her drink without the carefully orchestrated swing of her hips, or opening her legs a bit, constantly touching her breasts, and licking her thickly painted lips. The boy moved closer, desperate to touch her, and Lorraine waited, knew Blondie would talk money any second. Sure enough, she saw her whisper, then lean back, resting her elbows on the bar, and the boy was hooked.

  He passed some bills and the come-on act dropped. Blondie downed her drink, slid off the stool, and, arm in arm, they walked out. Lorraine guessed she’d have a room in one of the motels close by and that the boy was probably a college kid high on grass and desperate to get his rocks off. Well, he would, but he would probably not have wagered on it being so fast.

  Curtis leaned on the bar next to Lorraine. He ordered a beer.

  “You know some friends of mine, Didi and Nula. I’m lookin’ for them, but they’re not on the strip,” she said.

  “Still early for them. What do you want?”

  “I’m a friend of Art’s.”

  “You want some videos?”

  “Maybe.”

  Curtis suddenly moved closer to Lorraine. “So you know Didi and Nula.” He stripped her with his eyes, then focused on her crotch. “But you’re not one of them. You want to turn a few tricks?” he asked casually, as if offering her a drink.

  “No, I want to see them and I don’t like going to their place in case I interrupt a session.”

  Curtis tilted his head back and laughed. “Not party to that, sugar, not with kids, not my scene.”

  Lorraine smiled back. He was relaxing, trusting her, and even more so when a skinny black hooker, Elsa, breezed in and saw Lorraine.

  “Hey, how you doin’?” she screamed across the bar, then wiggled over and slipped her arms around Lorraine. “Long time no see, an’ you cleaned yerself up. Baby, you’re lookin’ great.”

  Lorraine was entwined in strong skinny arms and the thick black curly wig tickled her face as Elsa kissed her on the lips. Curtis looked on, as Elsa, still clasping Lorraine tightly, told him how many good times the two of them had had together. She traced the scar on Lorraine’s face with her thumb, the long, hooked, bright-red nail running along it like a claw. “Oh, Jesus, do I remember that night.”

  “More than I do,” said Lorraine.

  The bartender summoned Curtis to take a call and Elsa perched on a stool next to Lorraine. “So, what you been doin’, sugar? I thought maybe you were dead.”

  “No, I’m alive. You want a drink?”

  “Sure, Coke an’ bourbon, if you’re buyin’.”

  They carried their drinks to a booth, but Elsa’s attention flitted constantly to the entrance, waiting for a customer.

  “Did you know Holly?”

  “Sure, sweet kid, one of Curtis’s. He’s been cut up bad about it.”

  Lorraine led the conversation around to which was Holly’s corner, but Elsa couldn’t remember: she had moved around because some of the girls could get nasty and they decided that pretty, young Holly was hedging in on their territory. Curtis was small fry: he only had a few girls and was too weak to get heavy with any of the other pimps. He mostly had trannies because nobody else wanted the
m—trannies and a few young chicks that he screwed more than any John got to. Holly was his girl.

  “The night she died, did you see her at all?”

  “Nah, I was in the Long Down Motel. I got a room there now.”

  Lorraine tried to ask as much as she could about Holly without it sounding suspicious, but Elsa would only say that on the night of the murder, it had been real slow for business and any John was picked up fast. “You get good nights and bad nights, you know.”

  “Yeah,” murmured Lorraine, but then Curtis returned and Elsa moved off to a prospective client.

  He stood and leaned on the back of the booth. “You still want videos? I can maybe get some in a couple of hours, I got business right now. Come back later.” The bartender waved him over to take another call. Curtis did his video and drug trade in the bars, just small stuff. His girls made the drops for him. Lorraine gave him an uneasy feeling. He watched her walking out. He didn’t buy the line she’d fed him about wanting a porno video.

  “Elsa!” She sauntered across and Curtis covered the phone. “Who was the blonde?”

  Elsa looked back to her John, and scratched the front of her wig. “Hooker, used to hang around the pool halls, did a few tricks with her way back. She was something else, man, a real sleaze lady, but boozed out—Lorraine. We called her Lazy Lorraine. She’d never score a John, just waited until she was so smashed she wouldn’t have known if she had one or not. She went with some weirdos, didn’t give a fuck.” She hesitated a moment and then leaned closer. “Maybe don’t trust her too much, okay?”

  Curtis gripped her wrist. “What you mean?”

  Elsa twisted free, pissed off because he’d hurt her. “Word was she used to be a cop, that’s all.”

  * * *

  Lorraine walked along the strip, stopped at two more bars, and then spotted Nula paying off a cab. She was hard to miss, in her frilled Spanish blouse and Lycra pants, but she was wearing conservative, low-heeled black pumps and a blond wig with a long braid down the back. Lorraine called, Nula turned, was puzzled for a moment, and then recognized her.

  “You got time for a drink?” Lorraine smiled.

  “No, I just come on, I’m late.”

  “How’s Didi?”

  Nula shrugged and they walked down the strip together. “She’s still got problems with her foot but she won’t see a doctor—hates them.”

  Lorraine asked again if she had time for a drink. Nula looked at her watch and agreed, but only a quickie. They went to a small coffee bar and sat with two espressos. Nula was edgy, constantly looking out at the strip.

  “I wanted to ask you about the night Holly was murdered. A friend of mine was picked up by a real creep. He had wet slobbery lips, rimless glasses, very middle-America, not beat up … and she was uneasy about him. She figured she’d seen him the night Holly died—maybe it was him that picked her up. Anyway, she did the business and got the hell out of his car.”

  Nula stirred her coffee. “Never saw nobody like that the night she got it. I tell you somethin’ though. Didi, right, she was duckin’ and divin’, she sees the guy cruisin’ down the road, right, she figures she’s scored but little Holly beat her to the punch.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me Didi saw Holly being picked up?”

  “She said it was a guy in a sort of beige-colored car.”

  “Have you told anybody this?”

  “No, why should I?”

  “Because he might have been the guy who killed her.”

  “Yeah, and he might not. It was early, just after I come on, so …” Lorraine didn’t like to push too hard. She started asking casual questions about how they worked it, the trannies and the straight chicks, but Nula wasn’t interested.

  “You think the John that picked up Holly might have been wanting Didi?”

  “Jesus, I dunno. Why you askin’ all these questions?”

  Lorraine lit a cigarette. “Just curious. Is Didi workin’ tonight, d’you know?”

  Nula said she was at a motel with a regular, but she’d be around later. “I gotta go. With Art gone, we’re short of cash.” Nula rested her hands on the table. “I said I wouldn’t talk to you again because of Art. That was a bad thing you did, Art was a decent guy.”

  “Come on, Nula, he was getting kids screwed. I saw the photographs, even saw Holly in a few of them.”

  Nula leaned in close. “How come you’re so interested in Holly? What’s she to you?”

  “She’s dead. Maybe I feel sorry for her—she was only seventeen.”

  “So was I once! And besides, she was our friend, not yours. We had cops around—some fucker gave them a tip-off. We haven’t done any photographic work for weeks—that’s because of you, isn’t it? You know, I been trying to place your face, like Didi says, we were at an AA meeting but … I don’t trust you. Stay away from us.”

  She walked out and Lorraine took the tab to the counter. As she turned to leave, she saw Curtis outside with Nula, who pointed to the coffee bar. Curtis pushed her, they seemed to be arguing, and then he turned to look in at the window. Lorraine saw the sign to the rest rooms and walked out. Curtis came in, asked for Lorraine, and the waitress pointed.

  Lorraine stood on the toilet seat. She heard the door creaking open, then footsteps and the other cubicle door pushed open. Since there were just the two, she knew he would try the next door, and find her, but just as his footsteps stopped outside her door, the waitress walked in and told him to get out. Lorraine waited fifteen minutes before she eased open the door and peered into the coffee bar. Curtis was standing directly outside and there was no back exit, or none she could see, so she decided to front it out.

  He turned fast when she came out. Suddenly his arm shot out and he grabbed her elbow. “You askin’ questions about Holly an’ I wanna know why. What you askin’ questions about my little baby for?”

  She could see in his face he wasn’t going to hurt her. He wasn’t scared, just upset.

  “What’s it to you? I just liked her, okay?”

  “She was my girl.”

  Lorraine pulled her arm free. “Yeah, I know.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Yeah, not well, but I knew her.” He made to move off. “Curtis, wait a minute.”

  He looked at her. “I dunno what you want but stay away from here.”

  She took a chance. “Maybe I’m askin’ for the cops.”

  He stepped back fast, his face altered, his hands tightened into fists. Suddenly she knew that if they were alone he would hurt her, really hurt her.

  “Not in the way you think, Curtis—come on, chill out, man, I was a hooker. All I’m doin’ is feedin’ back a little information, they got nothin’ on her killer. Don’t you want him caught? She was your girl, you just said so, she was beautiful, real beautiful, and—”

  “She’s dead, right, so fuck off.”

  Curtis walked away and Lorraine followed. He turned into an alley and stopped. Now she no longer had the safety of other people around her.

  “You got a fuckin’ nerve, lady. Back off me.”

  She stood four feet from him, far enough to keep out of range of a swinging fist. She held him in a steady gaze, not afraid, showing him she was on the level, letting him look at her.

  “I’m bein’ paid under the counter, fifty bucks. I’m not paid to do anythin’ else, just see if there was anyone who saw her that night, saw the john that picked her up. I don’t want to know anythin’ else. Help me. Why don’t you help me? Come on, man, she was your girl.”

  Curtis leaned against the wall and, to her astonishment, started to cry. Lorraine moved closer. “She was picked up last time you saw her near Didi and Nula’s piece of street, that right?” He nodded. She asked if he had seen anything, asked why Holly had been working with the transsexuals. He sniffed, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “She’d had a fight further up the strip, that’s all I know. She’d had this fight and we’d been talkin’, she said she wanted to move further
down the strip, I was fixin’ it for her. I never got to tell her I really cared …”

  “Now’s your chance to make it up to her, Curtis. If you hear anything, know anybody that saw anything, will you contact me?”

  “I don’t work for cops.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  She made him write her telephone number on the back of his hand. Then he walked off down the alley.

  Lorraine sighed. She was about to walk back the way she came when it hit her.

  “Freeze.”

  The boy ran on, his yellow zigzag stripe lit up in the neon lights.

  “Freeze.”

  He didn’t turn because he hadn’t even heard her, because it wasn’t a gun in his hand but a Sony Walkman.

  Sweat broke out all over her body. Her mouth felt dry and rancid. All she could think of was getting a drink. She started to run, back up the alley, along the strip, banging into passersby, her whole body aching, her brain screaming for a drink. “No, no, I won’t, don’t do it, don’t do it, just keep walking, keep walking.” A lethal, whispering voice repeated over and over, “You killed the poor kid, he wasn’t involved, you emptied your gun into a little kid’s back. How does that make you feel, you drunken bitch? You killed him.”

  Lorraine walked until the panic attack subsided. She sat down at the café she’d passed earlier, gasping for breath, waiting for her heart to slow down. She knew what she had done, but refused to face it. She had never faced it.

  “You okay?” Didi limped toward her. “You ran right past me like you’d seen a ghost.”

  “I did. I was just running from a drink. Sit down, let me buy you a coffee.”

  Didi hesitated. She was looking good. Lorraine would never have known that her hair, shining and loose, wasn’t her own. She had her big looped gold earrings in, and was wearing a tight-fitting lacy dress and white boots. She sat down. “Okay. My ankle still hurts like hell. I put these on, you know, gimme some stability, but it was a mistake. I think they’re makin’ it swell up even more.” She stretched out her leg, showing off the boots.