One More Body

by Josh Stallings

  They left her tied to the bed. Spread. Ready for them.

  But she wasn’t there. She stood on West Rosecrans, saw the car roll up. She stayed in that moment. Her last normal moment.

  The men left the house. They returned eating Burger King. They smoked pot and laughed. After the sun went down they were drunk. She could hear them laughing. They fought over who was going to fuck her first this time. A deep voice she knew as Zero said he didn’t do no sloppy seconds. They threw dice for it.

  And she was on West Rosecrans.

  And this moment would last forever.

  CHAPTER 5

  We crossed at TJ without incident. My passport might not stand up to heavy scrutiny, but I was white and riding with a cop. They barely glanced at her ID then let us slide into the land of the free, home of the weak, the broken and the bought off.

  The Pacific Ocean blurred by, the beer and painkillers doing their job. I leaned my seat back into a full recline. Angel leaned up and gave me a sloppy kiss. I fell asleep.

  In the dream I am killing kittens again. Tiny deformed kittens too genetically broken to survive. They cover the attic. I grab a tabby and snap its neck. I pick up another and kill it. They mew and stumble blindly. They will never survive. They must be killed. It is the only kind thing to do. I pick up a ginger. Her eyes are open. She looks at me. She is strong. She won’t die. I choke her but she just keeps fighting, scratching.

  “You ok? You were shouting in your sleep.”

  My face was slick with sweat. “I’m solid.” I have stopped wondering what the dream means. I know. “Where are we?” The sky was dark with pregnant rain clouds.

  “Just passing Dana Point. Be in LA in an hour, plus traffic.”

  I popped the top on a Pacífico and took a long, deep swallow.

  “That’s illegal this side of the border.”

  “Rolling with a cop should have some bennies.” I crunched a Vicodin, upended the beer and lay back down.

  “You ever sober?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “McGuire, this isn’t a joke. These pukes will kill us both if you fuck up.”

  “Who? Who, Detective Rollens? Do you know who we are going after?”

  “No. But whoever has Freedom is bad fucking news. They will take us out if you don’t sober up.”

  “You say that like I give a rat’s ass. You want to ride along then put a vest on and keep your mouth shut. We clear?”

  Rollens slammed on the brakes. We went from sixty to zero in a roar of burning tires. I was tossed forward, slamming my head on the dash. Pain stabbed where the beer bottle chipped my front tooth. Angel was wedged against the driver’s seat. She was growling, as if she was going to attack centrifugal force. Rollens released the brakes and stabbed the gas pedal down. I was slammed back down into my seat. I could feel blood coming down from my scalp. When we hit sixty-five she backed off.

  “McGuire, you really should wear your safety belt. Click it or ticket.”

  Blood ran down my chin. “I could learn to like you . . . that or kill you.” I laughed. She didn’t. “Just so you know, hurt my dog again, we’ll find out sooner rather than later.”

  IT WAS RAINING by the time we hit downtown LA. From the 5, I could see the skyscrapers disappearing into low clouds. Gold and silver towers looming over the industrial train tracks and the Mexican streets of East LA. The homeless collect in downtown. Billion dollar high-rises look down on legless beggars. My hometown. She held only sad memories. Innocence stolen for five bucks a shot in low-rent strip joints. Booze-addled fantasies of love turned wrong. Dead friends and betrayal. Welcome home, son, grab a glass.

  I DIRECTED ROLLENS to the Shamrock Motel in Hollywood. Sunset Boulevard. The dirty section, near Hollywood High School. Three spectral crackheads stumbled down the sidewalk, blocking the driveway.

  “What are we doing here?” Rollens didn’t look worried, just curious.

  “Get us a room.”

  The crackheads moved out of our way. The place was more of a dump than I remembered. Peeling paint, the stench of puke and piss. A perfect place to get lost.

  “Why not my apartment? Cheaper and no bedbugs.”

  “There are people who might not be too happy to hear I’m back in town. People you don’t want standing on your stoop.” That’s what I told her. Truth was, if she was going to take me down I wanted home court advantage.

  The room lived up to the exterior. The floor was covered in threadbare olive-colored carpet with dark stains that spoke of bloody deeds. Rollens stood, not wanting to sit on any surface. Didn’t blame her.

  “Nice place. Take many dates here?”

  Angel jumped onto the bed and curled up. “She’ll be getting hungry. Likes carne asada or carnitas. Just have them lay off the beans or buy a gas mask.” I headed out.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “I ride with you.”

  “Not if you want to see your niece again.”

  “How do I know you won’t powder on me?”

  “I’m down to one good trait: I do what I say I’ll do. I’m in until your niece is home in her momma’s arms or I’m dead. Besides, I’m leaving Angel with you, so you know I’ll be back.” I’m sure if I stuck around she would have had more to say, but I didn’t.

  LA IS A car town. Has been since Standard Oil shut down the Red Car lines and sold the world on suburbia. Now they were hustling to play catch up, digging subway tunnels like cash-glutted moles.

  I caught a cab over to the Valley, where one of the best motormen I’ve ever known had his shop. He started building cars to supplement his career as an actor. Acting fizzled, but illegal car builds skyrocketed. If you want to pack ten pounds of dope in a Prius and make sure it could outrun the cops, he’d tell you to fuck off. But if you wanted him to do it to a ’67 Chevelle, 20k later and, bam, you’d be rolling down the road in a nondescript rust bucket that could slap a Ferrari.

  “Mo, don’t even open your fucking mouth. The answer is no,” he said when I walked into his office.

  “Jay, come on. One for old—”

  “No!”

  “Don’t I always pay for what I break? You know I do.”

  “You owe me 40 large for the beauty you trashed in Mexico. That and, oh yeah, the Crown Vic you left as collateral. You blew that shit up, too.” With movie star flair, he swept his hair back with his left hand. A snub-nosed .38 materialized in his right hand.

  “Oh, Jay . . . fuck. Really? All our years of doing business and it ends with a gun? So be it. But, before you blaze away, listen. Remember Peter? That guy from the LA Times? He told me he had paid you in full.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Do I lie?”

  “People change.”

  “Not as much as you’d think. I’ll prove it to you. Even with all this drama, you are still going to get me a ride. That’s who you are.”

  “I have a gun. It is pointed at your face.”

  “Got it. Ok, I need a ride that says dated class, like for a player who has been away for a few years.”

  He thought about it. I could see I had him. “Fuck you, Mo, fuck you.”

  “I’ll get you your money.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Yes, you will.” He put the .38 down. “So this character we’re building, he’s just raised? Six, maybe seven years in the joint and takes his short out of mothballs. What was he down for?”

  “Pimping. Interstate movement of minors with intent.”

  “Luxury. Faded but still clean. Not a Caddy. He ain’t Huggy Bear, and this ain’t Starsky & Hutch. Something big enough to roll with his bitches.” He chewed his lower lip, looking out a dirty window at the cars parked behind his garage. “Bingo. I got it. An ’86 E300. You’ll love it. Hell, squint and it almost looks like your old Crown Victoria. You don’t have any cash do you?”

  “Jay, I’m looking for a thirteen-year-old girl. She’s bei
ng pimped out. She ain’t got a lot of chances left.”

  “Stop. Shut the fuck up. You keep talking and I’ll be giving you money.”

  THE MERCEDES WAS a large, boxy four-door. The silver paint wasn’t fresh, but it looked good. Jay opened the hood, a childlike gleam in his eye. “Four-forty-four, Chevy rat, good for five hundred at the rear wheels. Brembos on all four corners. Suspension’s all AMG. This motherfucker can take most sports cars up Mulholland.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “Catch?”

  “Yeah, gorgeous, you look like there’s a but coming.”

  “Body armor?”

  “Yes?”

  “It doesn’t have any. Haven’t had time to Kevlar it yet. In the plus column, it’s light.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “A 9mm can punch though that door.”

  “I’ll try not to get shot there then.” I tossed my duffle in the trunk, asked him if it had a CD player. He called me a dinosaur, just like the ride. He said I needed an iPod. I told him to fuck off and shook his hand.

  “Moses?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Dude, not my place, but you look like shit. Smell of pills and booze. None of my business, but you get pulled in, I lose the car.”

  “I’m fine. Peachy, in fact. Give me the keys.”

  The Benz did in fact have a CD player. Rum, Sodomy & the Lash was playing as I rolled down Lankershim Boulevard.

  I SPUN MY mental Rolodex.

  Gregor. An Armenian ex-street thug and true friend. I got his arm blown off trying to rescue the sister of a woman I loved, and he ended up with. He had always covered my ass. Heard he had a baby on the way, or maybe here by now. Heard he’d gone straight. Good for him.

  Manny. Persian owner of the titty bar where I bounced for most of my adult life, he had left town. I’d threatened to kill him if he didn’t, so that was understandable.

  Piper. A last resort. She said she was done with me. Said I brought too much pain with me. But we had been through a lot together. I could have been her man, if I had been smart enough. Maybe she would still help me with information. Maybe not. I was short on options.

  FROGTOWN SITS AT the base of the Silver Lake Hills. It’s a thin strip of real estate pinned between the 5 and the LA River. Live Nude Nude Nude Girls blinked over Xtasy, or Pink Pearl as it was now called. It had changed hands and names but still needed a coat of paint. It was just after sundown and the rain was softening the streetlights, though not enough to hide how sad the building was.

  “Twenty bucks, ace.” He wasn’t a big man, but he was black, and that alone scared most frat boys and squares.

  “Worked here, back in the day. Just need to see a dancer.”

  “Doesn’t everyone. Twenty bucks.” I could have dropped him. I gave him a twenty. Maybe I was growing up. Maybe I was just tired.

  The room was dark enough to hide the stained carpet and torn booths. A topless kid with fake tits was sitting on the stage. Bored. I was the only customer. I ordered a shot of Jack and a beer back. The girl slid up beside me.

  “Hi, handsome.” She ran a hand up my arm, squeezing my biceps. “Big man. I like ’em that way. You big all over?” She started to run her hand down onto my lap.

  “Don’t do that.” I caught her wrist. “I’m looking for a friend.” She dropped her shoulders. Stopped pushing her ass and tits out, and relaxed. The boredom returned to her face. She was jaded. Eighteen and getting older every day. Strippers age two years to every straight’s one. I watched enough of them come in. Fresh-faced day one, seven months in they looked old and angry. Unless you had money, then they were sweet college students just off the bus. It was always their first night. And you were always special. They’d do things with you in the back room they never did with other customers.

  “Buy me a drink.” She didn’t wait for me to answer, motioning for the bartender. “Vodka and Diet Coke, Billy. Don’t water it.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Said the lone man in a strip club. You smell like a week-old hangover.” She took a healthy gulp of her drink. “Don’t look at my titties, unless you want to pay.”

  “Listen, Amber or Ashley or whatever.”

  “Cherry Red.” Her hair was black and cut into a Betty Page. “Used to be a redhead.”

  “Might want to change the name.”

  “Too much work. You sure you don’t want a lap dance?”

  “Sure. I’m looking for a dancer named Piper.”

  “Why you want her? You don’t like what you see?” Give her credit for trying, but the thought of this sad, bored kid on my lap made my stomach sour. I pulled out my Vicodin and crunched two, chasing them with beer. The bartender started to say something, saw my eyes and went back to drying glasses.

  “You gonna share?” She eyed the pill bottle hungrily.

  “You want to know what they are?”

  “Not really.” I passed a Vicodin. She swallowed it without a second thought. “Billy, pass me lost and found.” The bartender shrugged and passed her a box from under the bar. Rooting around she found a pair of cheap, dark, black plastic glasses. “Put these on.”

  “What?”

  “Your crazy bloodshot eyes are making me feel icky.” I put them on. Big, wraparound bug-eyed Bono things. “Not good. But an improvement.” Billy the tender looked at me and busted out laughing.

  After a few more drinks, I asked about Piper again. They hadn’t heard of her. The number I had for her was dead. I’d swung past her apartment before trying the strip joint. A hipster couple lived there now. If Piper never wanted to see me again, she was going to get her wish.

  The Vicodin and Jack took hold, smoothing the edges. Cherry Red put on a robe. It was sheer, hiding nothing, but it made her more comfortable. We shot some pool. I needed to map the landscape. A year was a long time to be away from the trade. Cherry Red stopped flirting. She took her pool serious, sunk three balls on the break. She told me Craigslist had stopped taking sex ads and that LA Weekly was dead. Most of the girls used websites. “Not me, I don’t turn tricks. Draw the line at lap dancing.”

  I knew the line would shift. But what good would telling her do? Maybe I’d be wrong. Maybe she’d game the system and get out with her head intact. Probably not. My ex-wife had once accused me of oversimplifying the life cycle of strippers. Said I saw them as two-dimensional caricatures. She was a rich little princess who thought her money could fix me. I was young enough to sign on. Fact is, though every dancer I ever knew was a different soiled snowflake, their end run was always the same. Well, almost always.

  The music was someone’s random playlist. Someone had weird taste, because the hip hop was interrupted by a calliope-playing circus.

  “What the fuck is that noise?” Cherry Red asked.

  “Soundtrack to life.” I laughed.

  “Sucks. Cobain, that’s the soundtrack for my life.”

  “Kurt Cobain? Little young, aren’t you.”

  “He’s timeless.”

  “He was a pussy. Took the easy way out. Man should’ve sacked up and raised his kid.”

  “Fuck you.” She dropped three more balls. I hadn’t even touched my cue and was down thirty bucks. When I did get a turn, I dropped two and scratched. “That all you got, old man? Weak.”

  It cost me fifty to find out about a sex dance club in downtown. “Mexican joint, El Rancho something. Santa Fe, near 6th. They don’t even serve booze with the cooze. Ha, I like that. You wanna break this time?”

  “I think I spent enough watching you hustle me.”

  “Then buy me another drink.” I did and she kept talking, told me girls hooked out of El Rancho. The only streetwalkers she knew about worked a stroll down in East LA. “Skank city. You catch AIDS just looking at them. Sure you won’t let me?”

  “Baby girl, love to. But this is work.” She was a child. I left before the Jack and Vicodin told me different.

  “You ok to drive, old man?” she called as I hit t
he door.

  “Don’t I look ok?”

  “Nope. You look anything but ok.”

  CHAPTER 6

  When they cut the ropes off her hands Freedom felt a million needles pounding in with the blood. Every muscle hurt. Her vulva was swollen and bloody.

  Zero sat in a chair. He had dazzling white Timberlands, jeans and a Rocawear polo. Dark glasses. “Hungry, bitch?” He held a Burger King bag. Shook it so she could hear the food inside. Her stomach flopped. She couldn’t remember the last meal. Breakfast. Days ago. What was it, Eggos?

  “Dizzy bitch. You hungry, crawl your ass over here. Keep me waiting I’ll toss this shit.” Zero didn’t even care enough to sound angry.

  Freedom used the wall to stand. The room was swaying like it was in a storm.

  “Lion!” Zero snapped and the big man with prison muscles and an Ice-T braid slapped Freedom.

  “I say walk, or crawl?” Lion kneeled down, lifting Freedom’s face so she was looking at Zero. He arched an eyebrow awaiting an answer.

  “Crawl,” she whispered.

  “That’s right. Well done, little diamond.” Zero tossed the bag to the skinny man with cornrows and pockmarks. “SK, feed our little princess, our diamond in the rough.” He and Lion left. Soon the PlayStation could be heard blasting.

  SK had dirty, stained hands. He left black fingerprints on the bun of the burger when he gave it to Freedom. She barely noticed. She wolfed the burger down. Mistake. Her guts clenched. She puked.

  “Bitch, no you don’t. I paid good green for that.” SK pushed her face into the carpet. He wouldn’t let her up until she had eaten her own vomit. Freedom slowly mentally dissected SK, cracking his chest open. Squeezing his heart. Feeling it beat. Then slow. Then stop.

  “Get that dreamy bitch up,” Zero called from the doorway. Freedom kept her eyes closed, operating on them all.

  HANDS CARRIED HER to a filthy bathtub, dropped her in it and turned the shower on.

  “Clean your nasty shit up, bitch. You disgusting.”