by Frank Zafiro
Rueben and Benito had probably given him the guns to hold as soon they spotted us behind them, knowing that a juvenile wouldn’t get any serious time for a weapons possession. That’s probably what happened. Probably. That was easier to believe than Esteban as the designated shooter in the drive by.
That happened over ten years ago. From what little I paid attention to the news, it seemed to be getting worse, not better. A picture of sixteen-year-old Kris Sinderling, looking twenty if she were a day, flashed in my mind.
Could an eighteen-year-old black kid run whores out on East Sprague?
Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t think so. Maybe it was the old-school traditionalist in me, but I wanted a guy in a purple Cadillac, wearing furs and rings and a wide brim hat. More likely, it was just the way the kid carried himself. He had the edginess of one who serves, not the confidence of one who is served.
I sipped my Molson and waited.
25
I polished off the first Molson and sipped my way through most of another when my patience was rewarded.
The door swung open and light filtered in through the doorway. Outside had grown considerably darker since I’d come in. I realized I’d be walking home in the dark. I thought of the distance and the terrain and all the crack and gangsters and whores between me and home and decided right then that I’d take a cab. I also started wishing I’d brought along my gun. It would’ve been illegal for me to carry it in the bar due to state law but the reassuring weight of a short-barreled .45 would have been nice.
The man that sauntered through the front door filled the door frame. He wore a tight afro and a manicured beard. His Oakland Raiders jacket was an off-blue, almost the color that the Seattle Seahawks wore. He cruised in with a cane in his left hand, though I saw no sign of a limp. He didn’t wear a hat, but I guess I got my wish for pimp attire with that cane. And who knows? Maybe the handle screwed off and he kept his stash of dope inside.
He made his way to the corner booth. I watched his reflection in the cracked and smoke-dimmed glass behind the bar. The hooker cocked her hip at him as he approached. The skinny kid was out of the booth and standing five feet away. I was willing to bet that he’d been there before the front door was even half-way open.
“Hey, baby!” the girl said. “I been waitin’ for you.”
“Whattaya got for me, bitch?” the pimp said when he’d reached her. Despite his choice of words, his voice was affectionate.
There was a quick, almost invisible transfer from her hand to his. The move would have become habit between them, so much second nature that even in this safe haven, it was how she handed off her earnings.
“Shit,” he said, eyeing the fold of cash. “You are one earning bitch, baby!” He slapped her on the ass with a massive hand, then kept it there, kneading her buttock. The hooker all but purred.
“Usual, Rolo?” The bartender asked, reaching for a bottle.
“Inna minute,” Rolo told him and slid into the booth with his back to the wall. The hooker slid in next to him and nestled her head onto his shoulder. He whispered to her briefly and a sultry smile came over her face. She slid down and disappeared beneath the table.
Rolo nodded to the skinny kid, who went to the jukebox and inserted a dollar. I averted my eyes from both of them, ignored the wet sounds that were coming from beneath the table and almost echoing throughout the quiet bar. I wished that the old man would have one of his coughing fits.
Rap music blared through the speakers a moment later. It was only marginally better than listening to the suck sounds the hooker had been making under the table. I figured the song was earlier rap, as there was still some semblance of a melody. Then I realized it was a bastardization of one of the songs from Saturday Night Fever.
I kept my eyes fixed on the bottle of Molson Canadian and tried to watch everything out of the corner of my eye. The skinny kid took up a position leaning against the wall with his back to Rolo. The bartender, who had been a statue except for popping my two bottles and stealing my money, suddenly began cleaning glasses with his back to the corner where Rolo was getting serviced. Only the old man remained unchanged, sitting still except to sip or puff or cough.
Rolo clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. I cast furtive glances at him in the mirror every minute or so, watching for the hooker’s head to pop up from under the table like a prairie dog.
The scratching and thumping rendition of the disco song ended and there was a painful moment of silence, punctuating by a low, growling moan from Rolo. I focused on the squeaking sound the bartender made as he cleaned the glasses behind the bar. Another song poured from the jukebox. This one I recognized as an older song, some classic soul singer from an eon ago.
I took another sip of beer, studying the bottle but not seeing it. A gnawing doubt was growing in my stomach, asking if this was really such a great idea. You’d think a beer or two would help shore up a guy’s courage and resolve any nagging doubts. But the longer I sat there, the more I worried and the soul singer’s smooth voice did little to sooth my concern.
Relax, I told myself as I read the import information on the beer bottle. He’s a pimp, not a gangster. That means he’s in it for the money. He’s a businessman.
I shrugged off my worries and took another sip of Molson. What else was I supposed to do? If I wandered up and down Sprague showing Kris’s picture to hookers, Rolo would come see me sooner or later, anyway. Except that meeting would definitely be unfriendly. Or I’d get stopped by a patrolman which was not something I wanted to deal with, either.
This might not be a great idea, but it was a better option than any other one I had. Other than maybe calling up Matt Sinderling and telling him I quit.
As the song faded, the skinny kid appeared at my side. He flicked my shoulder with the back of his first two fingers.
“Yo,” he said. “The man wants to know who you are.”
I looked at him and then over my shoulder at Rolo. The hooker sat next to him rubbing her jaw and drinking water. He ignored her and stared directly at me. I couldn’t read his expression at that distance in the dim light.
The kid tapped me again. “Hey, you hear me?”
I returned my gaze to the kid and was suddenly furious at him. I hated his North Carolina shirt, his baggy pants and his floppy shoes. Most of all, I hated the smug look on his face.
“Yeah, I heard you,” I said in a low voice. “And if you tap me like that again, you’ll be finished using those fingers for a while.”
The kid looked surprised and before he could recover, I slid off the bar stool with my beer in hand and brushed past him. There was a rustle of movement behind me and Rolo’s hand rose up off the table in a “hold it” gesture. The rustling stopped.
The sounds of another rock song re-made as rap filled the bar. I put my beer on Rolo’s table. He stared at it like it was a giant turd. Then I slid into the booth across from him and looked him directly in the eye.
“I didn’t say you could sit there,” he said.
“I know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Bitch, you’d be making a big mistake if you plan on playing with me.”
“I don’t plan on making any mistakes,” I said. “Hopefully, we can help each other out.”
Rolo studied me carefully. He moved his lips slowly, pulling them inside his mouth, wetting them and then pursing them out with a high-pitched sucking sound. His eyes bore into me and for the first time I saw the mean intelligence in them. Urban accent or no, career choice or no, Rolo was not a stupid man.
“I know you?” he finally asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
He nodded, acknowledging my answer but still studying my features. “You sure about that?”
“I’m sure. I’d definitely remember you.”
Rolo broke into a practiced grin, but shades of it were genuine. “I guess that’s true, ain’t it? I am one unforgettable motherfucker.”
I didn’t answer,
letting him stroke himself.
His grin faded slightly. “You said we could help each other out.”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“I think we both know what I can do to help you out,” he said, giving the hooker next to him a nudge and a tip of his head. “But you can get that straight off the street.”
“True.”
“But you came in here. And sat at my motherfuckin’ table.”
I nodded.
Rolo leaned forward slightly, motioning me to do the same. Our faces were less than an inch apart. I could smell his odor and his cologne. That close, I heard his slightly labored breathing.
“So what is it you think you can do for me?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
I pushed back. “I need a little information. That’s all. And I’ll pay for it.”
Rolo’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back, crossing his massive arms in front of him. I saw his street intelligence go to work behind his eyes. He nudged the hooker. “Rhonda,” he said, “Go fix your hair. And rinse out your mouth before you come back here kissing on me.”
Rhonda showed no sign of hurt and slid immediately from the bar, walking toward the bathroom.
Rolo went back to working his lips, looking at me and thinking. Then he said, “What do you wanna know, white boy?”
I pulled Kris’s picture from my back pocket and laid it in front of him on the table. He didn’t look at it right away, but kept his appraising gaze on me. Finally, he dropped his eyes to the picture. There was a flicker of recognition that disappeared fast.
“Hot little bitch,” he grunted, with a shrug. “What about her?”
“You ever seen her?”
“I just did.”
”I mean in person.”
A small smile curled up at the corners of Rolo’s mouth. “You her daddy, ain’tcha?”
“Something like that,” I said.
He shook his head, still smiling. “Man, let me save you some heartache. They don’t ever come back to their daddies. Not once they been down here.”
I didn’t answer. He was right about that. They never did. They were either too ruined by dope or too ashamed or too dead.
“What do you wanna know about her?” Rolo asked. Now that he thought he had me figured out, he didn’t play coy any more.
“I want to find her,” I said.
Rolo just shook his head, that indulgent smile remaining on his lips.
“When did you see her last?” I asked.
“I ain’t never said I saw her,” Rolo said.
I pulled my remaining cash out of my jacket pocket. I’d brought a hundred and fifty with me when I left my apartment. Between the taxi rides, lunch, my “date” with Tiffany and the overpriced beer, I had fifty-seven dollars left. I laid fifty on the table and replaced the remaining seven dollars in my jacket.
Rolo looked down at the bills with the same disdain he’d eyed my bottle of beer just a few minutes before. “You think that impresses me?”
“It’s cash. And it’s easy.”
Rolo snorted. “Bitch, if I want your cash, I’ll just kick your lily white ass and take it.” He paused a moment, then reached out and pulled the fifty bucks toward him. “That’s a tax on you for sittin’ at my motherfuckin’ table and me not killin’ you for it.”
“Fair enough,” I said, “but let me offer you something else for that information.”
Rolo tucked the fifty dollars into his pocket. “What’d that be?”
“Silence,” I told him.
Rolo stopped, caution creeping into his face. The thump of bass and whine of 70s guitar faded to a hiss and the bar was quiet for another moment.
“Meaning what?”
It was my turn to lean forward. Rolo waited, but curiosity got the best of him and he followed suit.
“Did you know she was sixteen when you were running her?” I whispered.
Rolo’s eyes widened slightly, but he recovered from that as quickly as he’d hidden the flicker of recognition earlier. From the juke box, a slow piano played.
“You some kind of cop?” he asked, leaning back.
I shook my head. “I used to be. And I have a lot of friends who still are.”
“But you ain’t now.”
“No, I’m not. But those friends of mine who might not normally be interested in what you got going on out here might suddenly get interested if they found out what you’re doing involves sixteen-year-old girls. This isn’t New York, after all. This is River City, the All-American city.”
It wasn’t just that we were in River City, although that was part of it. Anywhere in the state, simply frequenting a juvenile prostitute is a felony. Pimping them is a serious felony and aggressively investigated and prosecuted by River City PD. My guess was that Rolo didn’t know she was underage and that when she said she was nineteen or twenty, he believed her.
Rolo’s eyes were hard as he glared at me. “You threatenin’ me, bitch? You threatenin’ me?”
“Easy, man,” I said. “I’m not making threats. I’m offering you something of value, that’s all. And since you’re a business man, I figure we can help each other here.”
Rolo’s glare slackened. He glanced over at the skinny kid in the North Carolina jersey and lifted his chin at him. The kid appeared at the booth a nanosecond later.
“Get me a paper,” Rolo told him. “A Nickel Nik.”
The Nickel Nik was the local free paper that was exclusively classified ads.
“You going garage saling?” I asked Rolo lightly as the kid trotted out of the bar.
Rolo shrugged at me. “What? A nigger can’t go pickin’ through white people’s throwaways?”
“I think the only color that matters at yard sales is green,” I said.
“That’s because you’re a white boy,” Rolo said. “My black ass shows up in some white socialite’s driveway up north, and he’s already got the nine and the one dialed.”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t there to change his mind about the state of racism in our little white corner of America.
“’Course, the bitches usually runnin’ those sales? The wives? Some of them see me come walkin’ up and they start to wonder what it might be like to catch a little jungle fever.” Rolo chuckled, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. He motioned over to the blonde hooker, who’d returned from the bathroom and taken a seat at the bar. “That’s how I met Rhonda.”
I knew he was making it up, but I smiled anyway.
Rolo stopped chuckling and leaned forward a little. His voice turned low and deadly. “I oughta dust your white ass for even thinkin’ you can sit at this table. But thanks to Rhonda, I’m feeling all mellow and shit right now, so we’ll do it your way. I’ll help you out. You keep your mouth shut. We cool?”
“Yeah.”
Rolo crossed his arms again. “When were you five-oh, anyway?”
“A few years ago.”
“How many? Like exactly.”
Why lie? “I was a cop up until ten years ago.”
“And why you quit? They fire your ass?”
“No. I resigned.”
“Why?”
“Injuries.”
Rolo nodded. “Injuries, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Still got those friends, though, huh?”
“Yeah. Quite a few.”
Rolo continued to nod, working his lips again. “All right, all right. I guess we can do a little business here. Whattya wanna know about the little white bitch?”
I cleared my throat. “I know she ran with you for a little while. Probably you didn’t know she was so young—“
“Definitely I did not know,” he said, punctuating each word.
I didn’t argue.
“I need to know where she went after she was with you,” I said. “It’s that simple.”
Rolo chuckled again. “’Simple,’ he says. Man, there ain’t nothing simple these days.”
I waited while he chuckled some more. The piano on the juke
box was joined by slow, sad horns. The front door opened and an old black man that could’ve been brothers with the guy already at the bar staggered in and took a seat two stools down from him. A brother from another mother, I mused.
Finally, Rolo said, “What’s this little girl’s real name?”
“Kris,” I told him.
“Kris,” he said, repeating it. “Kris. She said her name was Star.”
I felt a pang in my chest.
Rolo went on, “Anyway, her heart wasn’t in this work. She wanted to be a movie star. She was hooked up with a white boy who does movies.”
“What kind of movies?” I asked, dreading the answer I knew was coming.
“Fuck movies,” Rolo said. “For the Internet.”
“Here in River City?”
Rolo smiled. “What, you think this is really the All-American city? That’s just some convenient lies people tell each other so they don’t have to face what it’s really like.”
“What’s that?”
“C’mon, man,” Rolo said. “Brothers getting kept down, kids smoking crack and fucking like little white bunny rabbits, husbands fuckin’ ‘round on their wives, wives fuckin’ ‘round on their husbands, folks robbin’ the liquor store of its cash and the liquor store robbin’ folks of their lives.” He shook his head at me. “Open up your mutha fuckin’ eyes and see it.”
I was sorry I asked. I wasn’t in the mood for Street Philosophy 101 taught by Rolo the Pimp. I brought the discussion back to its point. “So the movie guy is here in town?”
Rolo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like I said.”
“What’s his name?”
Rolo shook his head. “Nuh-uh. That isn’t part of our deal. You can ask about her. That’s all.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. I thought about getting up and leaving then. He didn’t have any more information for me, not that he was willing to share. Plus, he was studying my face closely and that made me nervous.
“You ain’t her daddy,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Why do you say that?” I picked her picture up from the table and slipped it into my back pocket.
“You ain’t,” Rolo said. “I can tell. You didn’t like hearing about the sex movies, but you sure as hell didn’t act like a daddy who just heard it.”
