He sat up, steepled his fingers.
“That sound like some business to you?” I asked.
“Snitching?”
“I’m not asking for you to be a snitch,” I said. “I’m not laying that on you. I’m just asking for you to lead me in the right direction. Just point me to some folks. I’ll take it from there. Your name won’t even come up.”
He took his time getting around the point, sighing and rubbing his thighs with his hands as he surely contemplated the long-term effects of meeting with me.
“All right,” I responded. “Tell me what to do next.”
“Look up a girl named Nikki. That’ll put you on the track.”
“Why not tell me now?”
“We’re in public. You want to jump up and pistol whip me, go ahead. But your ass will be dragged out into the street before you could say Rodney King. Keep your calm. Keep your cool. I’m-a tell you. Truth is, I don’t know what happened to Nikki.”
“What do you know?”
“The most important thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Your boy, Taj, he was in love with her.”
“And I don’t doubt that you have some vested interest in seeing her go away, semi-permanently.”
He picked up a napkin, wiped some errant tartar sauce. “Now, that’s none of your business, is it?”
“You know what is some of my business? I was in a house got shot up, and I know that for a fact to be a tactic of the coward, wannabe thugs you run with.”
He didn’t so much as flinch. “Oh yeah? You know that, for a fact?”
“For a fact.”
“Well, maybe that is true and maybe it isn’t, but it’s definitely not your business. Might be something you stick your nose in, but noses have been known to get cut off from time to time.”
I patted the table with my left hand. “I’m not a stranger to that, I guess. The truth: you had somebody shoot up Deuce’s house.”
He crumpled up a napkin and threw it aside. “You got eyes, white boy, but you’re looking in the wrong places. I wanted somebody shot up, it’d have to be for a reason.”
“Like money.”
“Like, a favor. I consider myself a facilitator of business. I don’t rap, but I make records.” Pronouncing it rekkids. “I don’t pop niggas, but I get niggas popped.”
“So you did have something—”
“Listen to what I’m saying,” he interrupted. “Think of a nigga needed to go away because he needed to go away.”
There were so many dead bodies lining this trip, I couldn’t quite pick a name out.
“You ever heard the expression ‘snitches get stitches?’”
“Yeah.”
“Well, sometimes, they get popped. Sometimes it ain’t what they do, but what they see. And if they happen to see, I don’t know, somebody dumping a body down near the water, they need to go away. Am I wrong?”
I stared.
“Omar.”
He held up his index finger. “People always talk about making deals with the devil, as if it’s just ever one person, one devil. Shit, there’s devils all around, and I’m just one of them. So, you gon’ help me to get what you want, or you think you will try to seek ‘justice’ or whatever?”
I didn’t reply.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’ll be back for you.”
“Oh, I imagine it’ll be more difficult to find me once this blows up than before. In the meantime, flitter away. I gave you some of what you wanted to know. Now, you go on and do your thing. Create those paths of destruction that seem to follow you around. We’ll see what happens when you come out the other end.”
He stopped me one last time as I walked away. “Rolson McKane,” he said, “you still feel in control of your life? You still feel like you’ve got free will?”
“Let me answer that when this is all done.”
On the news, another body turned up, the victim of what was being called “growing gang tensions” within the city. I watched with detached interest, my mind elsewhere, but sat up when the girl’s picture appeared on-screen.
“…Nineteen-year-old Camilla Alvarez-Mendoza was found beaten and strangled in an abandoned car in northern Jacksonville this morning. The woman is identified as an illegal immigrant from Puerto Rico, who may have been involved in a prostitution ring operating within the confines of the city.”
It was her, the girl from the party. The one who’d gotten slapped around.
I got up, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and went outside, where I drank it down without pausing.
I had doomed her by trying to intervene.
Beyond the headline, the details were sparse. The national coverage was focused on some prick with a bum circuit-board up top and a ready access to guns walking into a black church and opening fire. It was as though the sound got turned down on all the crime and violence across the rest of the U.S.
White supremacist who lost his job went and filled an AR-15 with hollow point rounds before walking in during an a capella hymn and unloaded on them. Pumped thirty rounds into twenty-three people. Death toll read like a who’s who of heartbreak. Three toddlers. Six grandparents. One teenager. An assortment of husbands and wives. The preacher leaped out into the crowd as soon as the shots were fired, presumably to help his flock, and he was gunned down too. Took a few shots to the guts, and he bled out before the ambulance could staunch the wounds.
He managed to slip out of whatever small town in South Carolina where this happened, and the feds already had lost his trail. He’d fled into the mountains of North Carolina, so far as they knew, but they weren’t entirely sure, which had glued America’s asses to their collective seats.
5
Renia shot hoops with the dudes I’d talked to back when I was first looking for Rich D. She was good, had a convincing cross-over.
When she saw me, she threw peace signs at her team and grabbed a towel before joining me at the aluminum picnic tables at the outer edge of the court.
Before swigging from a Gatorade, she said, “You got some kind of death wish?”
“Just a few questions,” I said.
She replaced the cap on her drink and placed the bottle between her feet. She used the towel draped around her neck to wipe at her face. “Whatever gets you out of my braids the fastest, white boy.”
“Taj Gaines had a girlfriend.”
“Tyra.”
“Nope,” I said. “Try again.”
She sipped at her drink, glanced at me from the corners of her eyes. “Nikki.”
“Bingo,” I responded.
“I worked with her. Shot a few scenes. That’s it, man.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Man named Dietrich swears by the fact that I should come see you. Says you’ve got the lowdown on what happened to her.”
“You watch the news? She was in the biz. Girls who put themselves out there like that take a certain amount of risk. Nikki was one of those.”
“I know plenty of girls in the life who don’t end up — what — strangled and left to rot in an abandoned car.”
“Yeah, but plenty do. Nikki wasn’t just filming scenes. She was out on the streets, too. She worked dangerous corners.”
“And so she got killed for it.”
“Girls disappear all the time. If they’re black and if they hook, they get swallowed up and forgotten. Man wants to prey on women, he just needs to stick to minority prostitutes. Nobody’ll give a dainty shit about them. Cops do, yeah, but they’ve got political reasons for that. But you won’t find a manhunt for their bodies, not like when them pretty white college girls go missing. You know what I’m saying?”
“Unfortunately,” I responded. “What do you know about Nikki? Where she came from, who she hung out with. That sort of thing.”
“Nikki was quiet, but she was always watching everything around her. Had these eyes, like, ‘Oh, my God. Is she a model?’ But s
he stayed in line, because she knew she had to. When I worked with her—”
“Interesting way of putting it.”
“If video cameras had been invented before fucking, porno would be the oldest profession. Anyway, she was right natural at what she was supposed to do. She took direction well. Showing up, she didn’t seem all that into it, which happens. I thought I’d have to coerce her. You know, that happens, too. Like, sometimes you have to get them loosened up.“
“How?”
“Some girls, it takes booze. Some girls want weed. And some of them, well, some of them I have to step in and break myself, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. Who was there with her?”
“Like, her representation?”
“I guess. I don’t know how it works.”
“Okay, so the set is closed. I try to keep the house clean as I can. You know, you can’t have a crackhead waltz in mid-scene or you’ve lost, like, a whole day. But I remember, she had a couple people with her. One of them was her representation—”
“Her pimp.”
“Yeah, her pimp. Then there was this other dude. He was her date for after the shoot. Seemed like he wanted to be there, and I think he was paying to watch her be with other guys. Now that you mention it, I should have charged for that, too.”
“I need names.”
“Her pimp was one of Dominguez’s lackeys. He used to cut dudes up on street corners for dope sacks, and then he got into the pimpin’ game. His name is Vernon, but everybody calls him Bone. He’s strung out as fuck, so he probably won’t remember Nikki’s name, let alone that he repped her.”
“Will he know where to find Dominguez?”
“He might. He’s a weird, violent dude. Might end up trying to stick you up for a couple of bills, but he’s not rough. Just keep out of arm’s length, and you’ll be fine.”
“And the john?”
“He stayed in the shadows. I didn’t pay him any mind, but he was there. I see the way you’re looking at me, but I try to make shoots as professional as possible. I mean, given my resources and shit.”
“So you don’t remember what he looks like? No name? Nothing like that?”
“No, my mind is hazy. I mean, weird thing is, the way he looks in my head right now, he sort of reminds me of you.”
“Did she do it on her own?”
“Of course she did. When it comes to hooking, you can’t get somebody to sub in for you.”
“That’s not what I mean. Did she choose the life, or was she forced into it?”
“You think a girl lets somebody make that decision for her?”
“More than just greed for money puts a girl on the streets, giving hanjobs for ten dollar bills. How did she get into the life?”
Renia looked around, wiped the sweat from her nose. “You like asking questions.”
“Now, Nikki. Was she dragged onto the street or not?”
“Come on, man.”
“Tell. Me. About. Nikki.”
“Okay. Jesus.”
“Was she forced into prostitution or not?”
She nodded. “She got hooked up with a guy works for Dominguez. You know Dominguez, right?”
“We met in passing.”
“That’s probably best. He’s prone to squishing people he sees as bugs, and if you’re buzzing around his face, he’s liable to swat you.”
I touched the knot above my forehead. “I think maybe he took his first shot at that.”
“He’s got a lot of irons in a lot of fires. There was talk in back circles he might catch a federal case, at some point, but the people intending on snitching on him ended up being found without their arms and legs.”
“He ever bankroll you?”
“You keep asking that.”
“I’m curious.”
She sighed. “He’s made a lot of money turning girls out, and so I suppose, yeah, I’ve made some money off him. I don’t owe him anything, though. He’s an independent businessman. I’m an independent woman with a business. He don’t concern me none.”
“So you wouldn’t put me in the bug zapper with him, then?”
“I ought to. I let bygones be bygones, forget the fact you kicked in my door, had your boy try to choke me out.”
“He’s going through a rough patch,” I said.
“I’d say so. He’s a big motherfucker to be having trouble keeping his hands to himself.”
“He—”
“Lost his brother,” she said, waving her hand. “I know, I know. Only so many times you gonna be able to use that.”
“I apologize,” I said. “I wasn’t seeing things clearly. I was—”
“Fucked up? Yeah, that was plain to see.”
“Anyway, when I rolled into town, the gun barrel was white hot. Me and my friend, we were looking for vengeance, and the only way we knew how to achieve it was to turn the broilers up to scald.”
She pulled the blunt from behind one ear and chewed on the white tip. She flicked the lighter in front of it and puffed. “You going to fail, you know that?”
“You’re probably right.”
“I work by logic, see? I could flip your lightswitch right now, but that would put unnecessary heat on me. I’m out on bail right now, and it looks like I’m-a catch a case for some shit that was in my house.”
“That why you’re against killing me?”
She grimaced. “I figure, if I help you find Hector Dominguez, either he’s going to eat your lunch or you’re going to have his. Either way, I win.”
“You’re not afraid of going to jail?”
“The shit they got on me wouldn’t stick to Velcro.”
“Most people who go down have a sense of false entitlement.”
“I’m a black woman. You think I got any sense of entitlement? I’ve got connections to people higher on the food chain, and they won’t press me too hard if they know what’s good for them.”
“You going to roll over, put on a snitch jacket?”
“Now you talking like somebody’s done some time. You were a cop, weren’t you?”
“Was, yeah, but no, I never did any time. I just got out of the profession.”
She smiled wryly. “I can see why. No, I’m not going to snitch. I might” — she sliced one hand through the air — “guide them toward slightly bigger fishes. They go and hijack them folks, and I walk.”
“And you’re all right with that?”
“Business competition is a bitch,” she said, puffing the cigarillo. “You want the lowdown on Nikki, or nah?”
“You’re not going to turn over on me, are you?”
She smiled, blinked. I felt the threat all through my bones. It made sense that she’d use me against her own stint, since I was basically a fugitive from justice, but I hoped it wouldn’t play out like that. Seemed like I’d just hang myself out there for a time until I’d figured out what I needed to know.
I circled back to an original idea. “Why’d they kill Nikki?”
“Depends on who had her killed. Don’t go and assume Dominguez had her nixed, just because she worked for somebody who worked for him. She was a bad girl, spent a lot of time on the streets. Hooking puts you in contact with some bad people. Maybe she just got in the wrong car.”
“How did she die?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. I just remember somebody — one of the homies — telling me that she was dead, somebody had ganked her. I don’t remember asking a lot of questions. You know, business we’re in, people end up six feet down pretty often. Only time I perk up is when I hear something revolving around the girls I worked with.”
“You worked with Nikki.”
“You right. Way she died, it was incidental, know what I’m saying? I hear a girl dies, I ask people how. She dies by glock nine, I go ‘Oh, shit.’ Somebody says she got AIDS, HIV, something like that, then I’ve got a business problem. I’ve got people to let know they might have come in contact with some horrifying crud, and it’s on me. I’ve not done
my job, know what I’m saying?”
“I do. You don’t have any details, though?”
“She got hacked up, thrown away like she was somebody’s bridesmaid dress. She didn’t have no family, so she’s in a cheap little grave. Nobody but Taj cared for her, really cared for her, and he’s dead too.”
She grabbeed a used candy bar wrapper from the table, pulled a pen from one pocket.
“You want to see her work, you go to this site.” She wrote something on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. I pocketed it and thanked her for her time.
The internet has always been a strange, unexplored universe to me. I’d used it intermittently at local libraries and on borrowed computers, but as a concept, it had largely slipped past me.
People had begun to engage one another online for the sake of voyeurism. Not that I couldn’t identify with it. I had become a watcher of people, a glimpse into the private lives of people for the sake of gratification.
However, the idea of prodding into the dark corners of somebody else’s life held little interest for me.
Still, despite my reservations, I found myself typing in the web address Renia had given me and hitting Enter. What slowly appeared on-screen defied all expectations.
This was not some electrified girlie mag, a place for the average suburban dad to indulge a little bit of risque fantasy. Of course, there was some of that, too. You could click through and watch girls go down on hairy, grunting subjects, just off camera.
Or maybe a girl climbed atop an out-of-shape “actor” and bounced dejectedly toward climax, rolling over to smile at her own embarrassment afterward.
These were not ideal working conditions. The houses were clean enough. The sets were almost bright enough to erase the bizarre feeling watching them gave you. The production value was just spotty enough to make you believe it was the real deal.
But it wasn’t just male fantasy. It was so much more.
I clicked on a video, glancing once over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being watched. This sort of internet activity begged for incarceration.
It was Nikki, all right. Bound and gagged and tethered to the bedposts. She was clad in fishnet stockings, leather shorts, leather top, a half-mask with eyelets, and duct tape around the wrists. The camera made an explicit point to pan in on her, drinking in every square inch of both her body and her situation. Her eyes, dark and mostly dilated, danced nervously toward the camera.
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