by Rick R. Reed
“Look, Jimmy. I want to help you. Let’s see what we can do about finding your friends, finding out who this guy is first. No cops. All right?”
Jimmy glanced back at Richard, wary. “I guess I got no choice,” he whispered after a moment.
This much out of the way, both of them fell to silence. Richard admitted, “I’m not sure where we can begin, Jimmy. You say you absolutely can’t remember what Randy said the man’s name was.”
Jimmy shrugged. “I been tryin’ to remember. It just won’t fuckin’ come back. It’s gone, man.”
“What about when he took you home? Didn’t you get any sense of where he was taking you?”
Jimmy shook his head, feeling stupid. “West side somewhere. I don’t know.” He knotted his hands into fists, suddenly angry at his own stupidity. Why didn’t he pay better attention? “Who knows? It was dark. Chicago’s big, man.” Jimmy thought for a minute. “I don’t get out of the neighborhood much.” He looked down at the floor, feeling like there should be more he could do to help. “I don’t know, maybe off Harlem, maybe off Western.”
“Well,” the priest said, “perhaps it’ll come back.”
“I’m real scared about Miranda.”
The priest remembered the girl Jimmy had told him about earlier.
“What about Avery?”
“Avery don’t hustle. He gets by any way he can, but not by hustlin’. I don’t think this creep’ll go after him. Least, not right away.”
The priest leaned forward. “Jimmy, tell me about the man. Anything you can think of, no matter how unimportant it might seem.”
Jimmy looked at him like he was crazy, shrugged, and began, “I don’t know. He’s a small guy, looks kinda young. At least from a distance. He’s got a little flab: spare tire around his middle, you know? Dark hair, goin’ a little bald on top. He looks kinda like somebody’s dad, I guess.” Jimmy smirked. “What do I know about that? Drives a black Toyota pickup, you know?” Jimmy pounded his fist into the couch. “I wish I could remember better where the dude lives! But you know how them neighborhoods are, all the houses look alike? Brick bungalows, shit like that.”
Richard wasn’t hearing much of what Jimmy was saying anymore. He was remembering back to last fall, when he walked out of an SAA meeting with a new member, a guy they had just “stepped” earlier that evening. It was his first time and “stepping” involved Richard meeting him at a coffee shop on Granville prior to the meeting, to let him know what would take place so that he’d be somewhat prepared for what would be expected of him. After the meeting, the men had talked again.
*
“You know, I’m really glad you found the courage to come here tonight,” Richard said to the man walking beside him. An October breeze blew in, making Richard wish he’d worn a jacket. Indian summer seemed to be rapidly drawing to a close.
“I am, too. Maybe this group can help me get my life back on track.”
Richard took in the earnestness in the man’s eyes. He was a slight man, and Richard noticed that the acid-washed jeans and fluorescent green sweatshirt he wore seemed too young for the thinning hair and the lines on his face. As they walked down the street, no one would guess, Richard imagined, that the two of them were just coming from a meeting organized to help them fight sexual addiction.
“Well, we try to help each other out. It’s not a cure-all, but, Dwight, I swear, it’s done wonders for me. Maybe the biggest relief, you’ll find, is there’s somewhere to turn for help in dealing with this. People you can talk to who aren’t sitting in judgment can make enough of a difference to get you where you want to be, I think.”
The two of them walked on and Richard felt close to the man, closer than anyone else in the group, even though this was his first time. Sure, Richard thought, they all dealt with sexual addiction and they all had that in common, but none of them had the exact same problem.
Not like he and Dwight did.
At last, the Lord had looked down and sent him a helpmate. Sent each other a helpmate. Maybe.
They were at Dwight’s pickup. Dwight fumbled in his pocket for his keys, then brought them out. He held out his hand to the priest. “Thanks for the concern,” he said. “I think you and I will have a lot to talk about, but I’m tired tonight.”
“Understood.” Richard shook his hand firmly, holding it a little longer to give the man the warmth of his contact, however limited.
Richard waved as he watched Dwight drive away.
He might not have noticed the truck if he hadn’t been considering buying a new one himself at the time. It was a black Toyota.
*
“…empty. It was weird,” Jimmy was saying.
Richard looked up. “Wait a minute. A few minutes ago, you said what the guy drove. What’d you say it was?”
“A black Toyota, I think. You know, one of them little toy trucks.”
Richard sat back and massaged his temples. Of course, he thought, it all fits together so well. Why didn’t I think of Dwight earlier? A truck wasn’t much to go on, but the vehicle of a pedophile…
Richard remembered the second meeting Dwight had come to, remembered how he seemed a little too intent on pumping Richard for information on where he could meet kids. Richard had rebuked him, telling him he was better off not knowing, that exchanging “hunting ground locations” wasn’t the purpose of the meetings.
He had thought at the time that Dwight would understand, that Dwight wanted help in dealing with his addiction.
But Dwight had never come back.
“Jimmy, you said your friend Randy knew this guy, knew his name. Was it Dwight?”
Jimmy’s face screwed up; his eyebrows came together for a moment. His face softened. “That’s it, man. You know him, too?”
“I think so, Jimmy, I think so. Did your friend give a last name?”
“I don’t know, man, I can’t remember. But I know Dwight sounds right. How did you know?”
Richard told the boy about SAA as briefly as possible, told him the connection. Jimmy sat, nodding.
“We can’t do shit without a last name. How many Dwights are there in Chicago?”
The priest’s head sagged. The boy was right.
Jimmy stood up, filled once more with nervous energy. “I gotta find her. Enough of this bullshit. I got a feeling he’s gonna go after Miranda. She’s gotta be warned. Now.”
The priest stood, too. “Please, Jimmy, let me help you.”
“Get your coat, man. Let’s go. We got ground to cover.” Jimmy started toward the door. “Maybe we’ll bump into your buddy while we’re looking.”
Richard didn’t say anything. Was this what he’d been reduced to, then? Child molesters for “buddies”? He got up and put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Just hold on for a second, okay?”
“Man, we gotta be out there. She could die.” Jimmy’s face was frantic; something almost seemed to be pulling him out the door.
Richard put up a hand…placating. “Just give me five minutes, okay? I can make a phone call that might put an end to everything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let me call someone in my SAA group. I might be able to find out Dwight’s last name.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Jimmy. Really.” Richard rubbed his forehead, trying to remember where he’d left his address book. It was a long shot, he knew. At SAA, they made it a strict policy to always use only first names. But, Richard remembered, initial visits were always set up when an interested person wrote into the post office box listed in their classified ad in the Chicago Reader. At that time, the person had to at least give a phone number so someone from the group could get in touch with the prospective member.
Richard found his address book in his desk and picked up the phone. Jimmy stood by the door, like a horse at the starting gate.
After a couple rings, Richard heard the voice of Ed Bryan.
“Ed? Ed, hi, t
his is Richard…from the group.”
“Hi, Richard. How are you? Anything I can do?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. What I need from you is the name of a member.”
Ed’s voice reflected hesitation as he asked, “What do you mean?”
Jimmy said, from across the room, “Don’t give anything away, man. That could mean trouble.”
Richard nodded to Jimmy and said to Ed, “I just need the last name of a guy who came to a couple meetings a while back. His first name was Dwight. Remember him? He was—”
“You know I can’t give you his last name, Richard. I’m surprised you’d ask.”
“Yeah, I know, but someone I know might be in trouble—”
“Watch it, now,” Jimmy cautioned.
“—and this guy could be involved.” Richard rubbed nervously at his forehead, wishing now that Jimmy wasn’t right there. He felt like he was taking a test. “I wish I could be more specific, but trust me on this.”
“I’m not so sure…”
“Look, Ed, I’m a priest and I’m telling you: This is really a matter of life and death.”
Richard listened to silence for a while. Ed spoke again, “Okay, okay. I probably shouldn’t do this. But how can I turn down a priest? Hang on a sec, okay?”
Richard listened to the phone being put down. He smiled at Jimmy, covering the receiver with his hand and saying, “He’s checking. We may be in luck.”
After a few seconds, Ed came back. “Richard?”
“Yes. What’d you find out?” Richard grabbed a pen from the desk, got ready to write.
“I don’t have a record for this guy. But I do remember him. He was kind of paranoid. He called me not too long after he came last time and was concerned about confidentiality. He had me send back his letter with his name and address. It happens sometimes…you know, people get scared.”
“Yeah,” Richard said, his momentary euphoria making a quick escape. “You wouldn’t happen to remember his last name, would you?”
“Wish I could. Something with an M. Myers maybe?”
“I don’t know. Thanks, anyway, Ed.” Richard put the phone back and looked at Jimmy. “I’m sorry.” Richard scanned through his memory, wondering if, in talking to him, the man had ever given him his last name. There was no certainty in the priest’s mind that Dwight didn’t at one point tell him his last name, but there was no trace of memory of what that name might be, either.
“Forget it, man, let’s go.”
Jimmy was out the door. Richard hurried to catch up.
Chapter 18
Miranda wished she had worn something warmer. The gloves, black lace with the fingers cut off, looked great, especially with her long red nails. But her fingers were starting to tingle with the cold.
She had dressed herself entirely in black tonight: a long, black satin dress she had found in a thrift shop, black lace-up boots, and a billowing black wool coat over top. All the black emphasized her red hair. She had woven a string of rhinestones through her hair. She thought maybe the reason she hadn’t been picked up yet was that she looked too intimidating: looked too good to be a prostitute, too beautiful to make an offer to. Fears of rejection.
She sensed the vibrations coming psychically from the drivers of cars as they passed her by. She could smell their desire and read their fear.
If it weren’t so damn cold, she’d revel in it. Instead, she found herself trying to make eye contact with the guys in the cars as they passed by. When she did, she smiled at the driver, sending the telepathic message: “You want me and I am obtainable.”
She tried to concentrate on how the street looked, how the cold gave it a harsh beauty: the neon of the street signs reflecting off the icy pavement, the slick hiss of the tires on the road. Saturday night. It was busy here in uptown, people coming out of bars, releasing the smoke and alcohol fumes within each time someone exited or entered. The sounds of a jukebox playing Don Henley came out to her: “See you walkin’ real slowly, smilin’ at everyone.” Miranda knew the song “Boys of Summer,” but thought the particular line she’d just heard was meant for her.
Everything was fate, Miranda believed. There were no accidents.
She looked back at the bar, wishing she could go inside, but knowing she wouldn’t get as far as the bouncer standing near the door. No point in even trying, as she had so many times in the past.
But she could smell the beer, the whiskey, the wine with just a quick open and close of the door! The smells made her warm for an instant, caused a growing feeling of want in her gut.
She couldn’t wait until she was older and could take her place in a bar like the one behind her, climbing up on the stool, a regal personality, slumming. That was what they’d all think. She’d smoke cigarettes from a long, bone-white ivory holder and drink aperitifs.
Whatever they were.
Tonight, she’d settle for a bottle of Cisco. She rubbed her arms. I’d settle for a bottle of anything. Anything to warm me, to numb me.
Soon…he’s coming to get me soon. And part of the deal will be a bottle. She looked down the street, at the line of cars, waiting for the light to change. In that group will be the one.
*
Tough parking. Dwight Morris maneuvered his truck into a spot on Winthrop Street, bumping against the cars in front of and behind him. It was the only way to get in this damn space. He’d been driving around the uptown neighborhood for the past half hour, looking for a place to park.
Tonight, I’ll do my hunting on foot.
*
What about Avery? Jimmy slid in beside the priest. What about Avery? He wasn’t at the apartment either when I was there.
A voice inside told him not to be concerned: Avery had never hustled. Not that hustling would exactly be a wise decision for a fifteen-year-old who was already tipping the scales at close to 275 pounds and who had what looked like terminal acne. But wise decisions were not Avery’s specialty. Jimmy remembered not long ago, sneaking into a theater with Avery to see this movie called The Grifters, how Avery told him he wanted to be like the people in that movie: cold, remorseless, and totally committed to themselves. Problem was, Avery didn’t realize it took brains, and not just selfishness, to make scams like the ones in the movie work.
Jimmy shrugged: Avery, wherever he was at the moment, would not be a target for this asshole.
But Miranda…His heart caught in his throat as he looked out the window at the cold, dark streets. Miranda was defenseless. All the guy would have to do is dangle a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 in front of her nose and she would be his. Literally.
“Let’s step on it, man,” he said to Richard. “It may be too late already.”
*
The pickup truck, dark and big, had circled the block three times now, each time slowing down to allow the driver to lean over and get a look at her.
Miranda leaned back against the worn brick facade of the building, close to the doorway of the Korean grocer’s. She looked back at the truck, trying to make eye contact, even though the face of the driver was nothing more than a pale, oval shape through the glass. She licked her lips and smiled. The anticipation had already begun to rise within her and she was thinking about getting past the sex and finding her way to TJ’s Liquor and Video, over on Broadway, where her friend Gary was working and would sell her a bottle of Cisco under the counter. She was thinking already of how the alcohol would taste in her mouth, how warm it would feel in her stomach. Her hands began to shake with desire.
She took a deep breath and stepped out from the shadow of the sign above her, imagining how her pale face looked in the shadows: regal, aristocratic. Diamonds sparkled through her hair. She had gone to a channeler once who told her that, in a past life, she had been a Russian countess. She could still remember.
The truck slowed a few feet away from her, then pulled over to the curb, in a zone reserved for buses. Miranda wanted to run to it, offer to do anything in ex
change for quick cash, but remembered the royalty she had come from and sidled, like the Cancerian crab she was, over to the truck. She looked down the street and tried to appear as if the truck had just happened to appear on her path to another, more important destination.
She slowed as she neared the pickup, slowed more as she got up to the passenger side window, listening to the whir of the power window being lowered.
She appeared startled as the voice came out of the dark confines of the car.
“What’s a pretty little lady like you doin’ out on a night like this?”
Miranda turned and leaned over slightly to look into the car. A middle-aged man, all bundled up in top coat, fedora, and muffler, smiled at her. He had a pipe clamped between his teeth. How fatherly.
“Why, sir, what a question! It’s a beautiful night out here, don’t you think? The night and the winter have their own charms and I’m just partaking of them. On a night like this,” Miranda said, “anything could happen.”
“Fuck this shit, man, we’re getting nowhere. Stop the car. Stop the fuckin’ car.”
*
Richard looked over at the foul-mouthed boy beside him, thinking how the tough talk didn’t match the rosy-cheeked exterior. He looked more like someone who should be playing altar boy, more so than many of the boys who actually did at his church.
“Jimmy, I think we can cover more territory if we stay in the car.”
“You don’t know much about it, do you, man? We don’t need to cover much territory. This here,” Jimmy said, referring to Lawrence Avenue and a couple cross streets, “is it. We need to get out, talk to people. Maybe someone’s seen her.”
“And maybe we’ll see Dwight’s black Toyota pickup as we drive.”
“And maybe we won’t. I love this girl. You understand that? She’s the only real family I got. I ain’t gonna have her gettin’ snatched by this guy. Go ahead and drive around, man.” Jimmy gave him a bitter look, born of worry and agitation. Jimmy’s hand was poised on the car door handle. “You can tell your sex addict buddies you did your good deed for the week.”
