by S. Swan
Glad to be at work in one piece, I mentally noted not to wear a dress on a city bus. I walked through the glass entrance and ran straight into Walter, the janitor. My feet tangled in the cord of the floor buffer. I flipped over and landed flat on my butt. Nessie bounded out from behind the reception desk. “Miss Cassie. Are you alright?”
I only wounded my pride. “I’m fine,” I said.
“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” Walter said. Walter was the only man at Mary House. Mary House didn’t hire men, for obvious reasons. Mary hired Walter as the handyman/janitor because the women at Mary House couldn’t perform some maintenance tasks. We could change a light bulb, but none of us knew how to change the heating element in the stove. Walter worked three days a week doing odd jobs around the facility. Walter and I didn’t get along. When I ask him to do a task, he always made some surly remark, and refused until Mary Lazarus confirmed its necessity.
“Did you hear me?” Walter snapped. He sported a mustache and sideburns, with huge blue-green anchor tattoo on his forearm. Walter reminded of a cross between Captain Quint, from the movie Jaws, and a retired porn star.
“You get on out of here Walter!” Nessie interjected. “You can’t talk to Miss Cassie like that.” Nessie took my hand and yanked me to my feet in one movement. “She’s your boss when Miss Mary’s away.”
“Humf.” Walter grumbled. I ignored Walter. He always gave me an uneasy feeling.
I dusted myself off and checked my clothes for damage. I had a run in my hose. I sighed. It’s not even eight o’clock and I’m already having a bad day! The date with Jimmy seemed the only redemption for my mood. Fortunately, my first session went without problems. After my morning session ended, I went to lunch. I found it easier and cheaper to eat in the dining room with the residents, than go out for lunch. The small dining room had only a few tables. I had to move quickly or there would be no seats.
The kitchen ran like clockwork, by an equally small woman named Cookie Jones. Cookie Jones had been the head cook at Community Hospital for twenty years. She kept the menu at Mary House similar to the hospital with simple meals. I decided to eat light, but the aroma wafting from the dining room told me it was lasagna day. Once a month, Cookie made her famous lasagna. She made the best lasagna. Why did today have to be lasagna day? I got in line. No lasagna, I told myself. I ignored the delicious smell of garlic and basil. I opted for a small salad, piece of garlic bread, and an apple.
“No lasagna?” Jane asked as I approached the check out. The residents didn’t have to pay for meals; they simply swiped their I.D. badge to register the meal. It logged their meal into a database for the staff to monitor. Not eating or eating too much were both symptoms of use. The staff physician monitored the residents eating habits closely to identify various health problems associated with addiction. The staff paid for their meals, but at a minimal cost. A complete meal usually consisted of three or four courses and a drink. No meal cost over five dollars, which was cheaper than any of the surrounding fast food chains, not to mention, the higher priced diners down the street.
“No, I’m eating out tonight,” I said.
“Somewhere nice?” Jane asked
“Yes.”
“I could tell by your outfit.” Jane gave me the once over. “You look real pretty today.” Everyone commented on my dress. It embarrassed me. I must look awful every other day.
“Two dollars.” Jane said. I handed her a ten dollar bill. It took Jane a moment to count back the change. “Five...six...seven...eight,” she said. Jane couldn’t work at McDonalds, but she did well in the dining room. Most people had exact change for their lunches, and the others knew better than to give her more than a ten dollar bill.
The cash register was a simple computer. She clicked on the icons for each person’s meal. Each square icon represented a part of the meal, blue for the entrees, red for sides, pink for dessert, and yellow for drinks. Mary converted to the system after seeing it be used in group home for special needs adults. At least one third of all prostitutes on the street suffered from learning disabilities that were never identified. Mary had been a special education teacher before she founded Mary House. A lot of the curriculum derived from Mary’s training as a special education teacher.
“Thank you, Jane.” I said, and headed for a table.
I sat down beside two women from my morning session. On Wednesdays, my morning sessions had high function women. These women were educated and only on the streets because of their drug habit. The drugs took them down so far that they supported their habit by selling themselves. Sandy and Lynnette, the two women at the table, both worked for the same dealer. He pimped them out to pay their drug debts. They worked together when they were arrested.
Lynette was on the downside of thirty and getting too old to live on the streets. Lynette committed to staying at Mary House after her sentence. She came from an upper middle class background. She went to junior college before marriage and children. Her addiction began with pain killers after back surgery. Before she admitted her problem, she stole a prescription pad from her doctor and forged his signature. While in jail for fraud, Lynette’s husband left, taking her two children. Heartbroken, she turned to stronger drugs to cope with the loss. She ended up on the streets, hooking to pay for her six hundred dollar a day heroine addiction. Lynette had not seen her children, who were nearly adults, in nine years. Lynette hoped to reunite with her children after she cleaned up.
Lynette looked after Sandy as if her mother. Sandy was an attractive blonde in her early-twenties, the only daughter of a middle class auto worker. After her graduation, Sandy’s father was downsized out of a job. He started using drugs. By Sandy’s nineteenth birthday, they were both junkies. Sandy’s father sold her to his dealer as payment for crack. Sandy hadn’t committed to cleaning herself up. She planned to do her time and go back to the streets.
“You didn’t get the lasagna?” Lynette asked.
“She’s got a hot date, remember?” Sandy added.
“That’s right,” Lynette said. “So who’s the guy?”
“He’s just a friend,” I said. These women weren’t prostitutes, addicts, or defendants to me. They were women, no different than co-workers. Some, like Nessie, were even friends.
“Some friend.” Lynette said, with a smirk.
“Do you like him?” Sandy asked.
“Yes,” I said, contemplating. “I like him very much.”
“So where did you meet him?” Lynette asked, brushing the wiry, salt and pepper bangs from her eyes.
“I’ve known him for years.”
Lynette looked at me through her long bangs. “So what’s taken so long to hook up?” she asked. Lynette needed a haircut. Mary House had a stylist who volunteered once a month. I made a note to make Lynette an appointment.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I didn’t elaborate. The story of my soul mate seemed too outlandish to discuss.
“Is he cute?” Sandy asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s he look like?” Sandy asked, taking a drink of her juice.
“Well, he’s Korean-American, so he looks Asian. He’s taller than me and handsome.”
“A tall Asian?” Lynette laughed. “This I’ve got to see.”
“There are tall Chinese people,” Sandy said. “What about that basketball player?” She asked referring to Yao Ming.
“I ain’t ever heard of a Chinese person playing ball.”
“There is at least one,” I said.
“Anyway, what about this guy?” Sandy asked. “What’s his name? Is it like Ling or Yin or something strange?”
“No,” I laughed, “his name is Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?” Lynette said, “That’s an American name.”
“I said he was Korean-American. He was born in the United States.”
I continued to girl talk with Sandy and Lynette until my lunch hour ended. I hurried to my next session after lunch, the beginners group. Any new resid
ents went through the beginner’s group in their first month at Mary House. The session taught new residents to trust the staff. Most of the women went through various stages of drug withdrawal. They tended to be more aggressive, and have a greater flight risk than, the women, like Lynette and Sandy, who had almost finished the program. Mary and I usually conducted the session together, but, in her absence, I did it myself. Currently, only three women attended the session. A small group made it easier, but still difficult compared to the other sessions.
The session dealt with the key values of Mary House, trust, respect, and accountability. We taught them to identify those who could and couldn’t be trusted. Some women trusted too much and others not enough. The women spent most of their lives being mistreated. They had no self-worth. We helped them learn to respect themselves. The last thing discussed was accountability. In most cases, aggravating circumstances led to drugs and prostitution, but they made the choices. Our discussion this afternoon focused on respect for oneself. The session went well and the women were receptive. It put me in good spirits. At four-thirty, I went to my office. I had to finish some paperwork before Jimmy arrived. I skipped to my office, literally skipped. No one is watching. I hoped.
I opened my door to find Detective King crammed in a small corner chair.
“Ms. Williams.” He said, as he rose to greet me. I noticed his somber expression. It wasn’t a follow-up visit.
“Detective King,” I said. “How did you get in here?”
“The lady at the front desk told me to wait here.” Damn it! I mentally cursed. I should have locked the door.
“What can I do for you Detective King?” I asked. The scent of his cologne filled my office. It was light, but manly. It would smell good on Jimmy.
“Call me Ben.” He said. “Detective King sounds so impersonal.”
“Okay, Ben,” I said. “Why are you here?” I already knew why. His presence confirmed the feeling I had all week. Skye was dead.
“We found two more prostitutes last night.” Detective King, Ben, sighed. “I thought maybe you could give me some information about them.” He reached into his charcoal colored silk suit and produced an envelope. “Do you know this girl?” he asked, pulling out an arrest photo of a young black girl. To my relief, I didn’t know the girl. The reader board she held read: Sanders, Kira.
“I’ve never seen this girl before, here or on the streets,” I said. “Who is she?”
“From the information we’ve gathered, she was a sixteen year old runaway from Bloomington,” he said. “An informant said that she’d been in Indy about three months.”
“What was she arrested for?” I asked, pointing at the photo, taken a month ago.
“Shop lifting. It was her only arrest so far.”
I stared at the photo. “So young and innocent,” I said. Runaways commonly came to Indianapolis from smaller towns with hopes for something better and ended in a worse position.
“I have another photo,” Ben said, and showed another arrest photo. A woman stared up from the photo, her eyes glassy, hair tangled, and face sallow. I immediately recognized the smile. Even strung out, Skye always had a charismatic smile.
“I always smile in my mug shots.” Skye once told me. “It lets them know they ain’t got me down.”
“Oh, Skye!” I cried.
“This is the woman who’s been missing?” Ben asked. I nodded. I sobbed too hard to speak. “How long did you say she’d been missing?” he asked.
“Since Friday.” I sobbed.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. He already knew it was Skye. “She’s been identified as Sarah Blackburn, is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said. “What happened to her?”
“She was beaten to death. We think pummeled with rocks.”
“She was stoned in the biblical sense?” I asked.
“Yes, we think so.”
“Where did you find her?”
“In the old Western Electric Building.”
“A warehouse?” That’s what Jimmy saw.
“Yes,” Ben said. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m missing something?”
I shrugged innocently. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened,” I said. “Do you think it was the same guy who killed Penny Roil?” I asked. I noticed gray colored tear stains on my paperwork. I pulled out a mirror and a tissue. I looked like a raccoon. I dabbed at the streaks.
“We do,” he said. “Speaking of Penny Roil, we found her baby.”
I dropped the tissue and looked up. “Really? Where?”
“She was staying with a neighbor woman,” Ben said. “She’s safe.” Tameka was safe. What a relief. “Have any of the prostitutes mentioned anything out of the ordinary?” Ben asked. “A John who’s weird or a dealer who’s settling a score?”
“No,” I said and added, “Our residents are blocked from the outside world once they arrive. We only allow monitored television, and don’t allow the news or programs that may trigger a relapse. Any news of the streets comes in via new residents, but by that time the news is several weeks old.” Mary House keeps the new residents separated on another floor. It was another reason for the beginner’s group.
“No one can provide accurate information.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Would interviewing the residents be out of the question?”
“Not out of the question, but I wouldn’t allow you to wander around the facilities,” I said. “If you had someone in mind, I would allow it.”
Ben smiled, gently. “I don’t have a specific person in mind and you’re probably right about none of them knowing anything.”
“If you need to talk to someone, I’ll arrange it, but for obvious reasons we don’t let men into the general facility.”
Ben gave me a puzzled expression. “I don’t understand.”
“Most of these women have been physically, emotionally, and spiritually depleted by men. Usually, it started long before the drugs and prostitution. Often it started in their childhood with some type of sexual abuse.”
“I see,” he said, contemplating. “These women associate men with hurt.” Ben stared at me. I shifted and busied myself with paperwork. “You don’t. Do you?” He asked.
“I don’t what?” I asked.
“Associate men with hurt?”
I thought for a moment. Like many of the residents, my father wasn’t a strong male in my life. His philandering ways influenced my dating, but I didn’t fear men or commitment. “No,” I finally replied.
“That didn’t sound very convincing,” Ben said.
“I have my issues, like everyone,” My daddy left me; my mom’s dead, but still haunts me; and a lover that’s psychic and sees me with someone else…just your average issues. “but I’m not like my residents.”
“No, you sure aren’t.” Ben said, softly. His big amber eyes undressed me.
“Excuse me?” I asked. Was he hitting me?
“You’re different.” He said, shaking his head. “I mean that’s why you’re in this position and helping them. You’re different…more caring than most.”
I stared at him. The conversation took an odd turn. Ben nervously repositioned himself in the small chair. I found Detective Ben King amiable. I liked him. He wasn’t Jimmy, but like Jimmy, Ben had an exotic tone about him. Today his eyes seemed like that of a tiger, hungry and wild.
“I guess that’s all I have to ask,” Ben said.
He stood to leave. “Let me walk you out.” I couldn’t trust that he would walk out of my office and leave. I watched detective shows On T.V. the cop did whatever to get the answers he needed. As I maneuvered around my desk, my heel caught on a worn piece of carpet. I pitched forward, arms flailing, and ungraciously landed in Ben’s arms.
For a split second, Ben buried his face into my hair. “Mmm,” he said, so faint that I could have imagined it.
“Ahem!” A throat clearing sound came from behind. Ben and I jumped as if caught in the midst of a
passionate embrace. I turned to face the person. It was Jimmy. He leaned on the door frame watching. I saw a hint of dimples. I flushed.
Jimmy looked magnificent. He wore a pair of navy Italian cut slacks with a lighter blue polo. His hair hung loose. The shirt fit tight across his chest and around his biceps. I beamed at Jimmy. Jimmy wordlessly gave me a nod, and then looked between me and the detective. I smiled. Again, Jimmy looked at me and then at the detective. He attempted to tell me something. What? I thought, but then I realized. I never moved from Ben. I remained froze in his arms. Ben pulled me closer on guard. His muscles twitched. Pressed against Ben’s chest, I felt his entire body against mine. I could feel a bulge between us. Holy crap!
I quickly, but not easily, broke from Ben’s embrace. “Jimmy, this is Detective Ben King. He’s investigating that homicide I told you about.”
“Jimmy Kim.” Jimmy introduced and extended his hand. “I’m Cassie’s boyfriend,” Jimmy added.
“Nice to meet you,” Ben said. He raised an eyebrow in examination of Jimmy. Jimmy did the same. They were actually sizing each other up! The air thickened with testosterone.
“This is for you.” Jimmy said, pulling a single red rose from behind his back. Ben smirked. “Thank you,” I said. I reveled in the attention.
“We’d better go. Our reservations are for five-thirty,” Jimmy said.
“I was just leaving,” Ben said.
“Wait, Detective King, we’ll walk you out.” I still wouldn’t allow him free to wander the halls of Mary House.
“No bother, I can find my way.”
“Sorry, it’s policy to escort visitors around the facility,” I said. The three of us walked out together. Jimmy on my right and Ben on my left. About every two seconds, one of the men would cast a sidelong glance at the other. Oh brother!
As Ben headed for the front doors he turned. “I’ll let you know of any developments, Ms. Williams.” He walked out the door and was gone.
I stopped at the front desk. “Nessie, make sure no one lets Detective King past the reception area if he comes back.”
