It was still dark when the predator left the house. He was going to the furnished room he'd rented and sleep until the next night. Then he'd finish with Joanne and move on, doing his work.
He walked around to the driver's door, keys in hand, like walking out of that alley in Chicago.
A heavy, hook–twisted steel spike was dangling from the door handle, swaying gently in the night breeze. Its thick base was crusted with flesh, torn off bloody at the root.
Man to Man
You wait for an obvious score, man. They are not hard to spot after a while but I'll show you a few from the next bunch that pass by. You have no trouble…since you so well–dressed for the role. And make sure you get it straight in front: how much and what you gonna do. There's a lot of studs on this street who'll do any fucking thing for half a C–note, but the real men here, we just let the goddamned queers swing on our joints and that's all! Don't ever come on to a score. Say nothin' to them. Don't talk. Just nod your head if you want to make it and walk away if you don't. The Law around here really don't care so long as you not soliciting…you know, like the hookers do, screaming at the cars and all. And there are some faggot cops who will make it with you and then bust you, man…some motherfucking heat that is! Stay out of the toilets and the movie balconies…'specially on this street 'cause then you become too well–known and it will not take long for the fags to look for a new face and the price drops on you. That's the way they are.
Best deal is to set a goal for yourself each day; like, say, a yard. And not to panic or press if you not goin' to make this right away and bein' sure to quit when you got this because that way the pressure is not on you.
Trouble is, man, you look too much like one of those motorcycle studs and you gonna get all kinds of action from freaks who want you to whale on them for bread. Not that there is anythin' wrong with working over a fucking queer but you got to go someplace to do it…like a room…
In the summer we make it to one of the queer beaches, but you got to have body for that stuff. I work out regularly and don't smoke or drink…only sometimes the queers expect you to smoke while they copping your joint because that is cool and removed…but you look wasted, man. Maybe you want to come along with some of the guys next time we hit the gym. Good bucks to be made from the camera freaks too…if you got the body. You got to have a partner to work out with you. You know, hold your legs while you kick and spot weights for you and stuff like that….I'll go with you sometime.
And don't be talking like some fuckin' intellectual all the time…the scores don't dig that shit. Tell them you a truck driver or a serviceman or something like that. I tell 'em I'm a professional athlete…you better not try that, though. In fact, just tell them you a hustler and let it go like that. That will clear the air and you won't get beat out of bread by some freak thinking you for free.
Lots of goddamned size–queens too. Like to measure the meat before they buy. I got no trouble like that so I make extra bucks sometimes. You, uh…hung pretty good? Better let me check you out first so I can tell you if you should show it to 'em first….
Oh, look, okay, man…that is your choice. I personally don't give a shit….I am just trying to give you a picture of this street so you last and live out here like me. I have been hustling this block for two seasons now and have only one time been busted. You just got to know how.
Listen, man, don't look at me like that. I know all about this "if you'll pitch, you'll catch" shit, but, dig, I don't do nothing. Even in the House, I don't do a fuckin' thing. The House, man…the fucking jail!
That was for somethin' else, not hustling.
Listen, man, you want to make it up to my room, just around the block? I got some beer on ice and we could talk more about this scene….I mean, this fucking street is a drag sometimes.
Plan B
I call myself a gambler, but that's not what I am—a gambler wins sometimes. Me, I'm a loser, that's the right word for it.
In all my gambling life, I only had one piece of luck. And like they always say, luck is a lady. That's my Penny. My Lucky Penny, I used to call her…back when I was keeping at least some of my promises.
The guy who said "for better or for worse" must have had me and Penny on his mind. Yeah. She was the better, I was the worse.
When I first knew her, when I was taking her out on the town, she was such a beauty guys would just bite their hands when she walked down the street.
That was more than twenty years ago, but even all those years of hash–house waitressing haven't made it all go away. She's still gorgeous, and not just to me. Yeah, she's put on a few pounds. And being on your feet all day don't do much for your legs. And having to eat most of her meals at that greasy spoon joint don't help your waistline either. They give her free meals at the joint—that's so they don't have to pay minimum wage. Penny could of made a lot more cash working in one of those joints where letting the customers grab your ass is part of the deal, but she wouldn't do that. I mean, I wouldn't of wanted her to do that, but I couldn't have stopped her. I mean, I was never enough of a man to take care of her like she deserved. How was I gonna tell her I want her to quit her job, when I wasn't bringing home the cash?
It wasn't that I didn't try—I'm a gambler, not a pimp. Truth is, I get ideas…good ideas…but I'm no good at carrying them out.
I mean, I don't drink or nothing. Never touched dope except for when I was in the Army. Everybody smoked in the Nam. Or did something heavier. I hated it over there, but I don't blame nobody but myself. I mean, I was a stone bust–out gambler before I ever got drafted.
Before I ever met my Penny.
Anyway, I always worked steady. Gamblers don't miss work the way drunks do. I got damn near twenty in on my job. At least, I did have until they laid me off. Hell, they about laid everybody off. Some of the guys said it's a bluff. They said they're trying to bust the union. Near as I can tell, the union's already busted. All I got to show for all those years is I get to keep my health plan for another year or so. Of course, I got to pay for it myself—the only thing management kept up was the lousy life insurance…twenty–five grand if I croak, big deal.
And, anyway, the truth is, I'm not keeping up the health insurance—Penny's doing that.
She always has faith in me. No matter how many times I screw up, no matter how many times I lie. Every time I get in a hole because I did something stupid, I always tell her I got another move. "I'll just go to Plan B, little girl." That's what I used to tell her when it started. But Penny ain't no little girl anymore. And me…me, I'm nothing but a liar. A promiser and a liar—for me, they're just the damn same.
Only one promise I ever kept to Penny. The one she told me she'd leave me for, if I broke it. "I'm not waiting around for you if you're in jail," she told me. And I knew she meant it—Penny is real strict about that kind of thing. So I never went to the sharks. Yeah, I was a good gambler, you understand?—I only lost the money I had on me at the time.
All the goddamned money.
Every single time.
If it wasn't for the house, I would of probably gone on like I was forever. This house, it was right across the street from the one we lived in. Rented in, I mean. A little house, but real nice. Penny loved it. She always said it was her dream house. The old couple that lived there, they decided to sell out and move down to Florida—the winters here are cold as hell. Penny was always doing things for them—baking them some cookies, even helping the old lady clean when her arthritis got too bad—so they told her she could have first shot at the house. They told her she could have it for fifty–five thousand if she could buy it before they put it on the market. The broker told them to list it for seventy–five, and be prepared to come down to sixty–five. But, the way they figured it, with the broker's commission and all, they could do a nice thing for Penny and still come out just about the same.
When Penny told me about it, she was so excited her face got all red, like when she was a kid. Like how she was when she stil
l believed some of my lies.
All we needed was ten percent down, she said. She already talked to a man at the bank. She didn't make much, but she sure was steady. Hell, before I got laid off, I was, too. All we needed was about six grand, she said. For the down payments and the points or whatever. And all the crap the bank sticks you with when you're up against the wall.
Six grand. Where were we gonna get that? She told me she had almost two grand socked away. She put her face down when she said it—like she was ashamed for holding out on me. You see what I mean about her?
If you counted all the money I wasted chasing horses that wouldn't run and opportunities that did, I probably could have bought Penny the whole house in cash.
The payments would be four hundred and eighty–seven dollars and twenty–six cents a month, Penny told me. "And we're already paying four–fifty, honey," she said.
I hated myself so much that I tried to talk her out of it. I told her we would have to pay our own heat and hot water and taxes and stuff, so it would be a lot more, really. But she said the mortgage, it would always be the same—but the landlord was gonna raise the rent eventually. All landlords do that. So, in the long run, we'd be ahead.
And when we were done working, we'd have a place of our own. The only thing that really scared Penny was being homeless. When she saw a homeless person on the street, she would get so scared…like the person was her in a few more years.
And Penny wanted a garden. The guy who rented the house to us, he wouldn't allow it, don't ask me why.
I never deserved Penny. She should be wearing silk. I get depressed every time I see her dabbing at her stockings with clear nail polish so the runs don't get lower down, where they would show. When I get depressed, I gamble more, that's the kind of real man I am.
I made her old. I made her scared of being homeless. And she never complained.
The only truth I ever told Penny was that I loved her. I was never as big as my own lies—I never caught up to them.
It had to be cash. At least four grand in cash.
All I had was health insurance that was running out and life insurance on a worthless life.
It had to be cash. So I had to break the one promise I always kept. "I can get the money," I told her. "I swear it on my love for you."
"Don't you dare—"
I cut her off. "I won't," I told her. "It's too complicated to explain, girl. But I—"
"Plan B?" she said. But with her sweet smile. Like she still believed in me.
Jesus.
"You just wait and see," I said. I knew I had six days. Six days and five nights. It couldn't be anything big, like a bank. You need partners for that and I didn't know anyone who could handle it. I mean, you're a gambler, you meet all kinds of guys say they do all kinds of things. But, the way I always figured it, if they were hanging out with a lying loser like me, how smart could they be? And because I never went near the loan sharks, I didn't know any, like, organized guys.
I had to do it alone.
First I needed a gun. That was so easy. I mean, I didn't have to do nothing illegal. I just went into a gun store and told them I wanted a pistol. What kind, they asked me. Cheap, I told them.
They had a bunch of them. I had to fill out a form. They asked questions like: was I a felon and was I crazy' I mean, they expect a escaped con or a drooling lunatic to admit it, they were the ones who were crazy. I had to wait three days, then I could come and pick up the gun.
I found where I wanted to do it. It's a club. Not like a nightclub or anything, although it was only open at night. A gambling club. Dice and cards only—none of that silly roulette or slot machines—real games, where a man has a chance. The club was protected. Protected from getting busted, that is—they paid off the cops. They had a guy at the door. Big huge fat guy, probably kill you if he fell on you. But I wasn't going to challenge him, anyway. I mean, he knows me. And I promised Penny I would never go to jail. No, I needed a stranger. A new guy. They were always coming in and out. I needed one coming in—when he still had money. It would be big money, too—there was no penny ante stuff inside—you had to have coin to sit in. That's why I only went there once in a while…when I was ahead from gambling someplace else. Naturally, I always lost. But I don't think the games were rigged—I'm just a loser.
When I went to the gun shop they had the pistol ready for me. "Don't you want some ammunition'' they asked me. "I got some at home," I told them.
On the second night, the right guy came along. I saw him park a smoke–gray Lincoln Town Car across the street. That's a classy ride, runs about thirty grand. He was sharp–dressed, too. Not flashy, more like a businessman. I could see the strong way he walked. Confident–like. Not the old gangster swagger, like a man who was in control of himself.
In a couple of minutes, Penny's dream was going to come true. I knew it. I was sure of it. Not like when I had a sure thing at the track, but sure…like nothing else could be.
Just as soon as he walked into the alley where the door to the club was, I stepped out from behind a dumpster and stuck the pistol in his face. "Give it up!" I told him.
He was real calm, real professional—just like I thought he'd be. "Do you know who I am'' he asked.
"Give me the money!" I said, cocking the pistol like I was gonna shoot him.
He took a shiny wallet out from under his coat. Real, real slow, so I wouldn't think he was reaching for a gun. He opened the wallet and took out a thick wad of bills—I could see they was all hundreds. "I'm sure you don't want my credit cards, right?" he said, a thin smile on his face.
I snatched the money out of his hand and backed away. He just stood there. "Don't try to come after me," I said. I turned around and ran. I heard footsteps behind me and I whipped around. It was the guy, holding something in his hand, some black thing, near his mouth. I turned around again and started to run. Three more corners and I'd get to where the car was waiting. Three more corners and…then I saw them across the street. Two of them. Cops. They were standing with their feet wide apart, guns in their hands.
"Freeze!" one of them yelled, and I knew I was never going to hand the money to Penny. I pulled out the pistol and I pointed it right at the cops.
I never heard the shots, but I felt them rip into me. One, two, three of them. In my chest and in my gut. I closed my eyes and went to Plan B.
REPLAY
Replay
A Play in Three Acts
Scene 1
Bordertown, Illinois-Indiana: Summer, 1992
The scene opens on the front room of a large office. There are no windows–the sense is that it's underground or just below first-floor level. There is a long couch against one wall, a desk and swivel chair just to the right side of a doorway. It has a large, multi-line telephone console as well as several other, free-standing phones, a rectangular digital timer with a row of buttons along the top–it reads: 0:00.00. A small computer screen sits over a keyboard. Over the desk is a bulletin board with various pieces of paper tacked up. The walls are covered with color posters of motorcycles, surf scenes–resembling the room of a teenage boy, but no pin-ups. There is a small refrigerator in another corner, a hot plate next to it. Over the couch (set so it is in view of the audience) is a huge cross-hatched chart. Across the top are various girls' names: Monique, Barbie, Jennifer, Candy, Kitty…down the left-hand margin are code letter combinations: B&D, S&M, H/S, F-D, S-R, and at the bottom, SCREENER. The cross-hatching is marked with an X in various squares…so that Barbie is matched with H/S, Kitty with S-R, and so on. A big clock stands over the charts: it reads 7:50. [NOTE TO DIRECTOR: THIS CLOCK RUNS IN "REAL TIME" THROUGHOUT, BUT IS RESET BETWEEN ACTS.]
A tall well-muscled man is seated at the desk chair, legs up on the desk. He's wearing a tank top over baggies and running shoes. He's in his thirties, with long hair…an aging surfer, a good-time boy, not a bodybuilder. This is BOLO. He's got a bottle of beer in one hand, reading a motorcycle magazine with something less than intense conce
ntration.
A bell sounds. He pushes a button on an intercom.
BOLO: AYW Enterprises. Can I help you?
LYZA: I'm here about the job interview. I called earlier?
BOLO: Oh yeah. Okay, come on through.
(He hits a switch. A buzzer sounds…sound of a heavy lock releasing. A girl walks into the room through the doorway. She's small: long, dark hair, with a slim, curvy build. She's wearing a red leather miniskirt over fishnet stockings and black spike heels, topped off by a black silk blouse. Heavy makeup, like Central Casting for "hooker." [NOTE TO DIRECTOR: THIS MAKEUP GRADUALLY DECREASES AS THE PLAY PROGRESSES, SO THAT SHE IS FRESH-SCRUBBED BY THE END OF ACT I.] She looks like she's in her mid-twenties, but it's hard to tell. She's carrying a small suitcase, about the size of a hatbox.)
LYZA: Hi! You must be Mr. Monroe, the man I spoke with on the phone. You said to come in anytime after eight.
BOLO: No, I'm Bolo. You musta spoken to Johnny earlier on, right? It don't matter: any of us coordinators can do the interview.
LYZA: Bolo?
BOLO: (Laughs) Yeah. Where I come from, it stands for Be On the Lookout. What the cops broadcast over the radio when they're lookin' for somebody. When I was younger, I liked to play pretty hard, you know? (Making fun of himself) Held the South Florida Bar Fighting Championship two years in a row.
LYZA: (Walking over, sitting on the desk, crossing her legs, mildly flirtatious) And now?
BOLO: Now I just want to hang out. Do some waves, ride my bike. Take it as it comes.
Born Bad Page 17
