by Alex MacLean
Time crept by.
The action hit its peak and then wound down. The number of hookers in Cornwallis Park began to dwindle, and then all were gone.
It was three thirty. He felt pathetic, a failure. He had come here to complete his first job. Now he sat alone, empty handed.
What were his choices? Cut his losses and leave, or continue searching?
Disappointed, his grip tightened on the binoculars, and he stuffed them back inside the duffel bag. He would leave.
About to turn over the engine, he saw a gray BMW roll up Barrington Street. It stopped at the curb on the corner of South. Clumsily, he reached inside the duffel bag for the binoculars again. Once more he adjusted the focus, watching as the passenger door swung open and the profile of a female figure bent out. Long stockinged legs, then flowing blond hair.
A crooked smile formed on his lips.
“Well, hello there,” he whispered.
The woman leaned inside to say something to the driver. Seconds later, she stepped back from the curb, fixing her miniskirt. As the BMW sped off, he could’ve sworn the woman flipped the bird at it.
Hoss glanced at the dash clock again. Four o’clock sharp.
Time to move.
He put the binoculars inside the duffel bag again. After he placed the bag on the floor, he cranked the ignition, and the engine kicked to life. Headlights touched the pavement in front of him. His hand moved to the gearshift and suddenly stopped there.
On Barrington came the rumble of car exhaust. As he looked for the source of the interruption, he saw a white car, pockmarked with rust spots, drive by. It pulled to the curb in front of the hooker.
With his jaw clenched tight, he stared. Anger-fueled frustration pounded in his temples as he realized the wasted hours he spent driving around and then sitting like an idiot.
He slammed a fist hard against the steering wheel. “Damn it.”
6
Halifax, May 9
4:01 a.m.
With caution, the hooker regarded the car as it stopped in front of her. Its tinted glass made it hard to see inside. The rumble of exhaust seemed to work right through her.
Instinctively, she dipped a hand into her purse. The canister of pepper spray that she touched gave her a sense of reassurance.
When the passenger window lowered, a young man with lank, black hair peered out at her. He was maybe twenty years old. His face was long and angular, pale and wasted. His eyes were glassy.
The woman took a step back when she sniffed the pungent scent of hashish spilling out of the car. All at once the young man’s face suddenly disappeared before her, transforming into the haggard face of her younger sister, Cathy. Images shot across the hooker’s mind—Cathy slumped unconscious over a toilet, a syringe hanging from the crook of her arm; the wail of sirens; the EHS paramedics rushing her out on a stretcher; Cathy lying in a hospital bed, feeble, shaking, tubes in her body; then later, Cathy’s ravaged eyes staring up, her palsied fingertips on her older sister’s arm as she struggled to speak.
“I’ll never do drugs again.”
The hooker winced.
If only I could believe that, she thought.
The slurred voice of the young man cut through her thoughts. “Hey, baby. How much?”
The woman blinked. She noticed a twenty-dollar bill in the man’s hand. Since her job was fraught with danger, she always made a point of examining the occupants of any vehicle before getting in. She bent over and looked at the driver. Another young man with short brown hair. He sat forward with a fixed, aimless gaze to his eyes. A shadowy figure moved in the backseat, the silhouette of a hash pipe to the person’s lips. Whether the figure was male or female, she couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter.
There was no way she would get into this car.
“Move along, boys,” she said.
“Oh, c’mon baby,” whined the young man. “Come a little closer.” He flicked his tongue in the air. “I want to taste you.”
She flushed. Her fingers curled around the canister of pepper spray. Ignoring him, she looked down Barrington Street toward the lights of the city’s core.
“I have money.” The man waved the twenty. “How much for a blowjob? Are you worth it?”
From the backseat, she heard laughter. Another male, she realized at that point. Her face tightened with anger. In one fluid motion, she brought out the canister of pepper spray and aimed it at the young man, her finger ready on the actuator. She willed her hand not to shake.
“I said move along,” she hissed.
The young man snapped his head back, his eyes wide.
“Take it easy.” He raised his hands, as if in mock surrender. “We’ll leave. No harm done.”
“Move,” the woman repeated.
“Fuck this,” the driver muttered.
With a squeal of tires, the car sped away. The hooker expelled a sigh. Watching the taillights, she put the canister of pepper spray back inside her purse. Then she lit another cigarette to calm her nerves.
Headlights flashed on the street. She turned her head to see another vehicle approaching. A pickup this time.
Smoking, the hooker watched it stop at the curb three feet from her. She saw a man inside reach across the seat for the window crank. Then she heard a voice, soft and warm, say, “Hello there.”
She flipped the cigarette to the sidewalk. Its tip glowed orange on the concrete. Gingerly, she took a step forward, one hand on the door, the other on her purse. She bent, examining the man inside with a contemptuous quiet.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
7
Halifax, May 9
4:03 a.m.
Hoss stared into the hooker’s face and immediately became allured by her ocean-blue eyes. They were perfect. Just perfect.
“Of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
The hooker looked around, darting glances here and there. “You a cop?”
In spite of himself, Hoss smiled. “No. Not at all.”
Every so often, a car would pass. He remained vigilant of the police. Being picked up soliciting a prostitute was the last thing he needed. He drew himself up behind the steering wheel. He touched his forehead, and his fingers came away wet.
“It’s a little late for company.” The hooker glanced at her watch. “My office hours are almost over.”
Hoss sensed her reluctance to get in. Somehow he had to persuade her that it was safe. He watched the fidgety movements of her fingers grazing the zipper of her purse.
“I won’t take much time,” he said.
The hooker gave him a faint smirk, and when she spoke, her voice dripped sarcasm. “Most men don’t.”
“Hey, if you’re not interested”—he reached for the gearshift—“I can take my business elsewhere.”
At once, the hooker leaned in through the open window.
“What’re you looking for?” she asked in a softened tone. “A blow? A lay? I can give you an hour if you want, but that’s it.”
A sudden wave of relief washed over him. Smiling, he casually petted the empty space beside him.
“Get in.”
A flip of the handle, and the passenger door opened. He could feel a breath of cool air spill into the cab, carrying the scent of the hooker’s perfume, faintly citrus. She climbed onto the seat. Swinging one leg inside, her foot stubbed the duffel bag, and glass clinked inside.
Her lips parted, and she looked down at the bag. Hoss tensed. Completely still, his gaze followed hers. A rivulet of sweat rolled down the side of his face. The door was still open, one leg out. If he grabbed for her, she could escape or scream for help.
When at last she turned to him, he fought to remain calm.
“What’s in the bag? You work out?”
A convulsive swallow. “Just work stuff. I’ll put it in back.”
He picked up the duffel bag and stepped outside with it. After checking the street in both directions, he put the bag in a storage box m
ounted behind the rear window of the truck. For a moment, he paused. Through the window, he watched the hooker pull in her other leg, reach out, and shut the door. The dome light went dark.
Standing there, he made himself imagine what had to be done.
He took one long breath and muttered a prayer for the resolve to see this through. Then, after steeling himself, he slid in behind the wheel.
“Let’s go somewhere no one can see us,” the hooker said. “I know a place.”
Silent, he nodded his acquiescence.
“But before we go anywhere.” The woman touched his shoulder. “There’s the question of my fee.”
He looked at her. “How much?”
She frowned. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?”
He felt his chest constrict. He saw the woman searching his eyes. Almost shyly, he turned away.
“First time,” he said.
She laughed aloud, tossing her head. “I don’t have time to play teacher.”
“It’s not that. It’s my girlfriend. Don’t get me wrong—our relationship is great, except for the sex.”
“A little frigid, is she?”
“Like an icebox.”
A car drove past, headlights streaming through a sleeping city. Together, they watched it disappear.
The hooker said, “The price is forty a blow. Sixty a lay. Or one twenty an hour. Up front. I don’t work on contingency.”
The clock in the dash read 4:16. An hour should be more than enough time. Hoss thumbed through some bills and handed the woman six twenties.
“Give me an hour,” he said.
He felt the bills being slipped from his fingers.
“Generous,” the hooker remarked, counting.
She stuffed the money into her purse. Then she told him to drive.
Down the street, a few late-night stragglers wandered the sidewalks. A small coterie of teenagers hung around a pimped-out car parked at the curb. Some of them glanced his way. Eyes averted, Hoss continued down Barrington. He saw a bearded man in an overcoat leaning against the side of a building with his arms folded and his head down as if asleep. Farther along, a young man in a hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans rummaged through a garbage can. By his side sat a cart half-full of his night’s yields.
Hoss passed the Old Burying Ground and then the stone facade of Government House.
“Take a right up here,” the hooker told him, pointing.
Salter Street was deserted, no one in sight. They coasted downhill toward the waterfront. At the corner of Salter and Lower Water Street, the hooker told him to take another right. Slowly, they passed the Brewery Market.
“See that parking lot across the street?” the hooker said.
He looked. “Yes.”
“Turn in there.”
The lot was empty. He drove to the far end and parked before shutting off the engine. He flipped the key to auxiliary so the radio would still play.
Beyond the windshield lay the glittering water of the Halifax Harbor. He peered out at a buoy rocking with the waves. Off to his left was a tugboat wharf. Two tugs were neatly moored at the dock.
Beside him, the woman removed her jacket and spread it out on the dash. Then she raised the tank top over her head. She wore no bra. Her breasts were full, with big round areolas. A gold ring hung from one nipple.
Watching, his mouth felt dry. His cock stirred in his pants. Instinctively, he drew down the zipper of his fly.
The hooker leaned back against the door and pulled her miniskirt up around her hips. Underneath, she wore a black thong. That she did not remove it herself suggested a silent offering. Hoss imagined her waiting for him. Desire now coursed through his brain. He reached out for the elastic band of the thong and worked it slowly off one leg and then the other.
The hooker opened her knees for him. Her pussy was shaved bare. Another gold ring pierced the folds of her labia.
He stared, transfixed. Sweat trickled down his sides.
“Like what you see?” the hooker asked with a smile.
Oh yes, he did, all right. He caressed her there, and she let out a sigh through her white, even teeth. One, then two seeking fingers found her warm wetness. The hooker closed her eyes. Her hips convulsed upward in powerful thrusts.
Hoss wondered if she was enjoying the foreplay. To him, her movements seemed to lack passion, a rehearsed act used only to encourage him, to make him feel at ease. He cupped her breasts and could feel her nipples rise under his palms. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, kissing him on the forehead, on the cheek, on the side of his mouth.
“Are you ready?” she whispered, her breath hot on his ear.
“Rock-hard ready,” he whispered back.
The hooker reached for her purse. From inside it, she produced a foil packet. She handed it to him. Hoss fumbled as he tore open the packet and touched the oily condom inside. Staring at her, he hesitated. His thoughts became a chaotic mixture of lust and restraint. One last remnant of self-control reminded him of the job he had to do.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
He saw the rest move forward in pieces—the hooker taking the condom from him, skillfully sliding it over the stiff thickness of his cock, her fingers turning up the radio, her moist lips on his, her arms pulling him down on top of her, her hands guiding his cock into her pussy, working the muscles with each push he made, the warmth of her body beneath his, the hard tips of her nipples pressing into his chest, and the reeking cigarettes on her breath.
Ever so slowly, he reached under the passenger seat and grabbed hold of the tire iron he had put there earlier. He rose off the woman, holding her down with his free hand. Beneath him, he felt her tense, saw her eyes balloon as she caught a glimpse of the object in his other hand, but by then, it was too late. There was a sickening crack of metal against bone, and he could feel the vibration work through his forearm. A small whimper came from the hooker’s lips.
Trembling, he watched her slump against the door, head tilted at an irregular angle, eyes closed. A red gash near her temple began to bleed.
The tire iron clunked on the floor as he dropped it. Hoss stepped outside and cautiously checked the street, the boardwalk nearby. Nothing moved. The streets and sidewalks were bare, with only the blinking traffic lights, throbbing like a heartbeat. Holding his breath, he listened for sounds—nothing but the soft murmur of the harbor water and the creak of the tugs as they scraped against the sides of their slips.
He retrieved his duffel bag from the storage box and then walked around the pickup with a brisk pace. As he opened the passenger door, the hooker’s head fell out toward him, face up. Her neck hung over the seat, hair dangling.
Hoss set the duffel bag on the pavement and lifted the hooker out, awkwardly throwing her dead weight over one shoulder. Her body was lighter than he had imagined. Under the stockings, her legs were cool.
He picked up the bag. As he carried it and the hooker toward the tugboat wharf, his gaze combed the area for other people. There were none.
When he reached the end of the wharf, he set the bag down first and then the hooker. The air was crisp and smelled of salt. The water around him was as black as ink. He could hear it lapping at the pile supports beneath the wharf. To his right shone the bright beacon from the lighthouse on George’s Island. Straight across the harbor was the city of Dartmouth. Its lights refracted along the edge of the water.
He knelt beside her and pulled out the Mason jar from the bag. After unscrewing the lid, he removed the teaspoon, then he got to work.
With his fingers, he held the hooker’s eyelids open and carefully slid the scoop of the teaspoon under and behind the right eye. He could feel, rather than hear, the slight tearing of muscle and ligament as he worked the eyeball free. A plop was followed by the eyeball rolling to the woman’s ear, suspended by the optic nerve. Blood welled up inside the empty socket.
He swallowed.
From the duffel bag, he took out the cuticle scissors and snipp
ed the optic nerve. The severed piece snapped back inside the skull, disappearing. Hoss dropped the eyeball into the Mason jar. Sweating heavily now, he repeated the same procedure with the other eye.
When he finished, he wiped off the spoon and scissors with a rag. He screwed the lid on the jar and then held it up to the moonlight. The two eyeballs bobbed on top of the watery preservative, the unseeing pupils staring back at him.
A groaning.
Hoss snapped around. The hooker’s body twitched with the first sign of consciousness. Shaken, he took a step back, then another. The hooker’s hands moved instinctively to her eye sockets. Her head turned slowly from side to side. Drool oozed from one corner of her mouth.
Hoss knew once the hooker regained her wits, she would begin screaming. In a panicky state, he put his hands under the woman’s arms and lifted her up. His own arms shook as he held her over the edge of the wharf.
Head lolling, the hooker continued to groan in front of him. With a rush of power, he hurled her into the water. The splash kicked up spray onto his hands. Below him, the hooker was an indistinct mass floating facedown, head submerged, shoulder blades above the surface. Ripples spread out from her body. Suddenly, as if jolted back to life, her arms and legs began thrashing. Her head came out of the water, coughing, gasping.
“Help...”
The hooker’s anguished voice came to him, so soft that perhaps he had imagined it. A natural instinct urged him to leap in and save her, but he quickly pushed that away. He watched as the water closed over her head, and she was gone.
Moments later, farther out, she broke the surface, spitting out the brine, sucking in the air in huge gulps. Her arms beat frantically now; she clawed and blindly grabbed for anything to keep her afloat.
“Somebody.” Coughing. “Pleeaasssse!”
She went under again.
Hoss scanned the murky harbor, short-lived breaths of frost exhaling from his mouth. Over the rolling water, he could hear the rush of his blood, the thump of his heart. Seconds passed, then a minute.
