by Dave Balcom
All three nodded. Jensen started to leave.
“Ray, did you find out anything about Crocker or Martini’s other boat?”
“Nope. Crocker doesn’t show up as a lawyer in any state, much less Washington or Oregon; and I haven’t heard back on Martini’s boat, but that’s working through the system.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Call me when you wake up.”
31
We started at Ivories, and it was quiet. The pianist was making an effort, and the jazz junkies were groovin’ on the whole traditional piano bar scene. We pretended to nurse a glass of wine for an hour, but then McPhee said he had another place in mind.
“I’d go there again,” Jan said out on the street.
“Nice music to sleep to, but I think we need a different vibe for our ladies,” McPhee responded.
We ran into Georgia just before midnight in a small club off Fifth Avenue. A combo was working in the corner, and there were six tables with people, one of them was a round table with four working girls nursing a drink.
“Second from the left,” McPhee whispered as we waited to be seated.
A waitress who looked eighty took us to a table on the far side of the room from the working girls, and took our order without any of that “Hi! I’m Shirley and I’ll be your server tonight” b.s.
When she returned with our drinks, she brought menus. “We serve for another thirty minutes; it’s all bar food this time of night,” she said with a strong eastern European accent.
We thanked her, and McPhee excused himself and walked around the little dance floor to the table in the back. He was gone less than 60 seconds and returned with Georgia in tow.
“Georgia, meet Jim and Jan Coldwell; folks, meet Georgia Wright.”
I stood to greet her, we shook hands and she nodded at Jan, and then sat down across from us.
“You reporters?” She asked. The skepticism was dripping off each word.
Jan took the lead. “We’re freelance writers. We’re working on a series of articles for a national news magazine. The articles are about life on the streets of America’s cities. We’ve been working on the homeless, the lost souls who have been dropped from the institutions and the grifters. Now we’re looking at wide variety of working girls.”
Jan delivered her introduction with no passion and no urgency.
“And you want to interview me?”
“Among others. We’re not moralists. I’ve been a working girl all my life, but the tools I had to make money didn’t attract men the way yours do.”
“You went to college to hone those talents, right?” Georgia said with a bit of sarcasm.
“I did,” Jan nodded.
“I went to a plastic surgeon.”
I was making notes, and that statement popped my head up. She looked at me in appraisal. I’d seen that look before, and when she got to the frayed collar on my shirt, she dismissed me out of hand and continued, “And then I went to college to make sure I got the most out of my investment.”
She turned to McPhee. “You gonna get me that drink?”
“Scotch, right?”
“Neat.”
McPhee left and went for the bar.
“So how did you hook up with Detective McPhee?”
I responded, “We figured the police would help us meet the right people in the most efficient manner. They agreed at the highest levels, and then assigned the grunt work to Jerry.”
She nodded and looked around the room. “I don’t want him hearing any of this.”
“Not a problem. He’ll wait away, but part of his job is to make sure we don’t somehow step across a line and become part of the story.”
“I won’t hurt you, big guy; I promise,” she said absently as she scanned the room.
Jan waited while Jerry placed Georgia’s drink before her, and then said, “Jerry, do you mind waiting at the bar?”
He didn’t respond; just picked up his drink and left.
“So, where did you grow up?” Jan started.
“You want my life story? I was born, I was abused and I was saved. That’s it.”
“All of that right here in Portland?”
“In the north end, mostly.”
“When did you start trickin’?”
“I was twelve. Chump change. Blow jobs, like that.”
“Where were your parents?”
“Who do you think taught me to trick?”
I asked next, “When did you go for the magical surgery?”
“I was eighteen, out of high school and legally on my own.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“Friends; they paid for everything on the agreement that I’d go on to college while I was working to pay them back.”
“Some friends.”
“Savior, actually.”
Jan came back in, “Do you work with those girls over there?”
She didn’t look over her shoulder. “No. I work with three other, well, no, two other women mostly. Tonight I’m on my own; not really working, but if something came up,” – she nodded her head once as if to say ‘naturally’ – “I’m not above taking on a freelance job.”
I came back, “But from what I’m hearing, your gig is quite different from the girls I see on the street, flagging down cars as it were. I mean, you’ve got it pretty safe, don’t you?”
She sat quiet for a long minute and as she sat there two or three thoughts moved across her face, as if memories were triggering emotional responses that she kept tight.
“It’s more money, for sure; but I’m not so sure how much safer it is. I mean, none of us are going to be doing this when we’re your age, you know? We have to make it now to pay for later.
“We’re really careful about STDs and making sure the client has been qualified by our friends, but still... just this summer, we went from four to three girls, and nobody knows what happened to Angie...”
“Maybe she retired?” Jan asked.
“Hmmm. Retirement isn’t something we talk about. It’s like, one day you’re working, and the next day you’re not. Phone doesn’t ring at your end, nobody answers at the other. I’ve seen it happen. If the girl didn’t take care of herself and her money anticipating that day, it wasn’t pretty.
“So why don’t you think your Angie didn’t just quit?”
A small smile quivered at the edge of her lips. “She might have; might have just gone off on a cruise. I’d like to think that. I really would, but then that would mean she took not only her boyfriend but all his crew with her.”
My head came up out of my notes again, “You mean they all disappeared at the same time?”
“Exactly.”
Jan again, “Can you tell me the name of her boyfriend?”
“Pedro.”
I looked up from my notes again, “No last name?”
She shook her head slowly, “Not for you.” Then her eyes went wide and some color drained out of her face. “In fact, I need you to use pseudonyms rather than any real names. That was stupid of me.”
Jan was quick. “It’s not as if you told us anything that could reflect on him or you, is it?”
“You and I know that, but talking to you isn’t the smartest thing I’ve done in my life, and if the wrong people read his name in your article, it could come back on me.”
“Nobody will read his name in our article,” Jan promised.
“Thanks. Are you about done? I only agreed for the Benjie.”
“Benjie?” Jan asked.
“I’ve got it covered,” I interjected. “Just one more question. I couldn’t help but note that three of the girls on a list that we received from Vice were all named ‘Wright.’ You and two others. Are you sisters? Cousins? Or what?”
She actually giggled. “Those are the girls I work with. We all had our names changed. It’s a marketing ploy. We work call out. If you’re looking for a good time, you need the Wright Girl, right? Well that’s the phon
e number: 974-448-4475 – and it’ll be answered, ‘Looking for the Wright Girl? You’ve found her; how can we help you?’” She giggled again, but it was mirthless. ‘So, can I get my money now?” She started to get up, and McPhee was at her side in an instant. He extended his hand to shake, saying, “That was painless, wasn’t it?”
She shook his hand, and her eyes lit up as she felt the folded hundred dollar bill in his palm. “Nice people; worth the time.”
Jan stood up and extended her hand, too. “Thank you, Miss Wright. Do you think we could spend time with any other of your associates? Same terms and everything?”
“I don’t know why not. Why don’t you drop by here again tomorrow night? If they’re interested, they’ll be here.”
“Thank you,” I said to her back as she sauntered back to the table.
“I hate to lose her, but I love to watch her go,” McPhee deadpanned.
“I never could master that walk,” Jan said. “Add glasses and a skinny butt, and you end up with a newspaper woman.”
We all laughed and headed for the door.
“Was it good?” McPhee asked as we got into his car.
“I think so,” Jan responded. “We’ll transcribe our notes and e-mail them to you and Jensen in the morning.”
“Good enough,” he said as he turned the corner and pulled into the Monaco entrance. “That place should do a good business with this hotel’s clientele,” he added. “It’s walking distance.”
It was just approaching 1 a.m. when we got to our room, and I immediately made a note on the bedside table. “What’s that?” Jan asked.
“Just a reminder of something I want to check on tom... later today.”
“Like if the concierge has the Wright Girls in his Contacts file?”
“Smart aleck.”
“Back at you,” she chirped as she closed the bathroom door.
32
I had the notes from our interview typed up when Jan woke up just after 9 a.m.
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Get your glasses on and edit these notes, make sure I’ve caught everything you remember,” I said as I laid the laptop on the bed and departed for the shower.
When I got back, she had the computer back on the desk with a note, “They’re perfect, and I sent them. Leave me alone and you’ll lose me forever.”
I made sure she wasn’t going to leave me right away, and then I went back to the shower. When I came out, she was snoring her little buzz, and I went looking for breakfast.
Just after noon, my cell phone chirped and I answered it. I was a few blocks away from the hotel, looking for the Farmer’s Market. “Where are you?” Jan asked. “I’m starving.”
“Sushi?”
“Sure!”
“Dressed?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me right outside, we can walk there.”
“Is this the Subaro’s you’re always talking about?”
“Nope, this is lunch. We’ll do Subaro’s on Saturday for dinner.”
“Okay, I’ll be right down.”
“I’m a couple of blocks away, but headed there at a good pace.”
She hung up, and I only had to wait ten minutes before she came out the front door to find me leaning against the building.
“I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting long, but Jensen called. He wanted lunch, but when I told him what we were planning, he said something ugly about bait and asked me to call him after we were done.”
We walked the few blocks to the restaurant, and had lunch. We talked about everything we liked about Portland, and what we wanted to see next, just like tourists do. As we left the restaurant, I noticed that a young man got up from the counter and followed us out.
I flipped open my phone and called Jensen. He answered immediately. “Enjoy lunch?”
“We did. Do you or PPD have anyone keeping an eye on us?”
“We don’t, why?”
“Somebody does. He followed me on my walk this morning, and he’s following us now back to our hotel.”
“I’ll check and get right back to you.”
“Thanks,” but I knew he was gone. “I hate digital phones,” I complained out loud, “there’s no background buzz to tell you when you’ve been disconnected.”
“Tough life, sonny,” was her only response.
Just as we reached the hotel, my phone chirped again. “Jensen here; where are you?”
“Just got to the hotel, why?”
“Can you take another turn, say around the block?”
“Sure,” and I hung up feeling bratty, like sticking out my tongue. “Jan, I’m not ready to go in yet, let’s look around a bit, okay?”
“It’s a lovely day. I thought it always rains here. This is my third visit, and I haven’t been rained on once.”
“You forget that long weekend last December.”
“Did it rain that weekend? Not while I was outside, it didn’t,” she said, shoving me playfully.
I draped my arm around her shoulders and we just strolled down Washington towards the Willamette River.
This part of town had a distinct industrial feel to it, partly because of the Highway 5 traffic overhead, and partly because compared to the Monaco’s block, everything looks a little seedy. My phone chirped. “Hello.”
“Is the guy we’re looking for young, olive complexion, slight with slicked back hair, wearing a white t-shirt?” McPhee asked.
“That’s him.”
“Sylva and I are parked up ahead of you. Keep your pace, walk by without noticing us.”
“Roger, that.” This time I heard his phone click shut.
We walked ahead; I started telling her about the great farmers’ markets I’ve found in major metropolitan cities. “L.A.’s is perhaps the best, but the St. Paul market is nothing to sneeze at.”
“Why do you visit them when you’re traveling?”
“Same reason I can’t resist going to the fish plants when I’m in the islands or overseas. I want to see what the local folks are processing.
“Some of the big city markets feature food outlets from baked goods to fish on a stick. Fun to explore.”
We had come to the end of the block, and as we waited for the “walk” signal, I casually turned a three hundred and sixty degree turn, like any tourist. The slight guy with the slicked back hair was missing as was the unmarked city car.
“Ready to go to the hotel?”
“Sure, but this has been fun.”
When we arrived at the hotel, Jensen was sitting in the lobby, reading the Oregonian someone had left behind.
He greeted us and started to rise, but I waved him back, and sent Jan to join him, “I’ll be right back.”
I walked to the concierge desk, where a middle-aged man was seated, talking on the phone. He held up a finger to let me know he saw me. I stood back so as not to overhear his conversation, and busied myself looking at flyers displayed in a rack adjacent to his desk.
When he hung up, I walked to him, stuck out my hand and introduced myself. “Jim Stanton, room twenty-one twenty-two.”
“Artie.” He said as he shook my hand.
“Artie, I’m working a bit on an article I’m writing with my wife over there, and something came up last night that I thought you might know about.”
He was eager to help, “What’s that?”
“A business called the ‘Wright Girl,’” and I spelled Wright.
The eager look of guest service drained off his face. “Never heard of that; no, I never have.”
“Really? Never heard of it, or never referred a guest to it?”
“Listen up, man. I said what I meant. Never heard of it.”
I put both hands up, palms out, “Take it easy. I’m not trying to say anything or start anything. I just have always known the concierge at the best hotels knows plenty of places he’d never refer a guest to. From what I understand, this outfit is a high-end call girl business, and I’m surprised you’ve never even heard of
it.”
At the sound of the word “outfit” Artie’s face went ashen. “Listen, I don’t need any kind of heat from you, the hotel or those people. I know from nothin’; you got that?”
“I have it. Sorry to have upset you.”
“I just don’t need the aggravation, you dig?”
“Absolutely. You’ll get none from me,” I said softly as I walked back to Jensen and Jan’s couch.
“That got animated,” Jan whispered.
“Do we need to have an official talk with him?” Jensen asked.
“I wish you wouldn’t. He’s scared spitless at the mention of Wright Girl or the word, ‘outfit’ even when it isn’t capitalized or used with ‘The.’”
Jensen gave a soft whistle. “Yep, no such thing.”
Jan sighed, “Just another urban legend.”
“What happened with McPhee and Sylva?” I asked.
“The guy following you turned out to have a bench warrant out against him: Failure to appear on a traffic beef. So they nabbed him, and took him to the Hall. While he was being transported, he became agitated about missing an important meeting today.
“When Sylva pressed him on it, he asked if they could cut him a break, let him make the meeting, and he’d meet them at the Hall after.
“Sylva told him that he’d spent that dime before, and he’d just have to call his meeting and explain his inability to make it. That’s when it got interesting. As Sylva described it, the guy burst into tears, and kept saying over and over, ‘They don’t take excuses, just results. You don’t understand, they’ll think I’m talkin’ to you, and they’ll take steps. You don’t understand.’ And on and on he went, sobbing, and when they took him out of the car, he tried to make a run for it. Hopeless.”
“They maybe should have let him walk, and followed him.”
Jan asked, “Did they say if he made a call?”
“He did. The call lasted less than thirty seconds, and then he went to the holding cell where he sat on the floor and sobbed.”
