I felt dirty, even though I hadn’t touched her.
I made my way down the stairs. No one looked at me as I reached the lobby. The bar was full. Men sat in the barrel chairs, and girls sat on their laps. Other girls lounged on the couches in the middle of the room.
Laughter now covered some peppy Motown song that I couldn’t quite identify. I did some quick math as I scanned the room.
Twenty dollars an encounter, not counting drinks, “weirdo shit,” or something that went longer than planned. At least thirty girls were waiting or working the men in the bar. Six hundred dollars for this hour, and it wasn’t even full on night yet.
Six hundred dollars. That was as much as I made in a month.
No wonder they didn’t want to sell this place. No wonder they didn’t want to close. They were making much more than six hundred dollars an hour and they did business for at least twelve hours per day.
That was over $7,000 per day, from just what I could see in the lobby, not counting what was going on in the rooms upstairs. Or the restaurant. Or the bar.
No one spoke to me as I made my way out. No one leered at me and asked me if I had a good time. The girls didn’t even give me a second glance, since they figured I had gotten what I had come here for.
I had, but not in the way I expected.
I let myself out and took a few steps north so that the protective darkness of the street enveloped me. The cold cleared my lungs, not that it mattered.
I kept my head bowed, and walked to the van, making sure no one followed me because it was time to go home.
THIRTY-FOUR
THE CLOCK IN THE VAN told me it was only six o’clock by the time I got home, but I didn’t believe it until I walked inside and saw the national news still playing on my television set. My apartment smelled of fried chicken. My mouth watered.
I stank of mothballs, cigarettes, and all kinds of foul things. I peeled off the coat and dumped it outside the door. If someone wanted to steal the damn thing, fine. I needed it, but I didn’t need it enough to keep it in my apartment.
Marvella peered at me from the stove. Something boiled in front of her, and she held a cooking spoon. “Thought you were going to be gone longer.”
“Felt like I was,” I said.
“Hey, Smoke!” Jimmy popped his head over the back of the couch. “What’d you do to your face?”
I touched the makeup. It flaked into my palm. “It’s just…stuff,” I said.
Marvella grinned. She realized that I couldn’t tell Jimmy I was wearing makeup.
“Marvella’s making fried chicken,” Jimmy said. “I gots half my homework done already.”
“‘Got,’” I corrected half-heartedly.
“Gots,” he said, and bounced back onto the couch. As I walked past it, I realized he had his thumb in the middle of an open book. He wasn’t really watching the news; he was reading.
“I need a shower,” I said to Marvella, and kept going to the back.
I could feel my mood, dark and angry, like a gigantic cloud moving through the apartment. I had no idea how I would hide it from the two of them. There was only so much I could do.
I turned on the shower, then for the second time this week, I bagged my clothes. This time, I wouldn’t throw them away. I just didn’t want to smell them, and I didn’t have time to do laundry right now.
I climbed in the scalding water and let it run, my head tilted back. That hotel was big, and I was facing an impossible task, especially alone.
The bathroom door opened, and then the shower curtain slide back.
“Hey!” I said, turning toward the wall.
Jimmy chuckled. “Just me. Marvella says you’ll need this.”
He handed me a white jar. Cold cream. Of course. How many women had I watched remove their makeup with this stuff?
“Can you take the lid off?” I asked.
“She says you gots to be—got to be careful with it. She’ll buy you your own later. So just dip your fingers in, okay?”
I stepped out of the water a bit, dipped my fingers in the chill gooey liquid, and smeared it on my cheek. Jimmy watched me, then laughed.
“I’m gonna pretend I don’t know what you done,” he said, and slid the shower curtain closed.
I presumed he meant the makeup, but I felt vaguely guilty anyway. What I’d done was something I’d never done before; I paid for time with a woman, and even though I hadn’t touched her, I still felt odd about it.
I leaned out of the shower again, grabbed a washcloth, and scrubbed the makeup off my face. The washcloth turned brown, and I had to hold it under the water to get the makeup off the cloth. Then I washed myself, and stood in the steaming hot water until it became lukewarm. I hoped no one else needed a shower in the next hour or two, because I had just used all the hot water, the first time I had done that since I moved into this building.
I got out, and as I dried off, I realized I hadn’t grabbed a change of clothes. I stepped out of the shower and saw my robe hanging on the back of the door.
I smiled, my mood lightening a little. Jimmy really was a good kid.
I put the robe on and walked to my bedroom, still feeling somewhat naked with Marvella down the hall. Things that wouldn’t bother me had Laura been here disturbed me greatly with Marvella around.
I put on a T-shirt and that ugly but warm sweater that Althea had given me, and another pair of pants, socks, and my slippers. I didn’t want to go out again on this night if I could help it, even though I probably should have refereed Laura’s meeting with Franklin.
But I didn’t want to. They were adults. They could come to some kind of conclusion on their own.
Besides, I had planning to do.
By the time I got back to the kitchen, Marvella had the chicken draining on some paper towels. Cooking-oil-soaked paper towels were already crumpled in the sink.
Freshly baked biscuits sat on a cooling rack that didn’t belong to me. And Marvella had a big bowl in her arms. She was stirring its contents with that wooden spoon.
“Don’t yell at me,” she said. “I don’t have vegetables. This is what I could do on short notice.”
“Yell at you?” I asked. “This is fantastic.”
She smiled, and set the mashed potatoes on the table. Then she cut half a stick of butter and plopped it in the middle of the potatoes.
“No gravy either,” she said. “The biscuits took it out of me.”
“Smells great.” Jimmy went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk. “You should let her cook every night, Smoke.”
I gave Marvella a sideways look.
“I only cook on special occasions, pal,” she said to Jimmy.
“Why’s this a special occasion?” He set his milk on the table, then climbed into his chair.
“It’s not now. I thought it would be just you and me, but Bill crashed our party.”
Jimmy gave me an appraising look. I half-expected him to tell me to leave, but his gaze was very serious.
“It’s good Smoke’s home,” he said. “I been worried.”
I didn’t need to hear that either. Not right now. I almost grabbed one of the last beers out of the fridge, then thought the better of it. I needed a clear head for the next few days.
I grabbed one of Jimmy’s Cokes instead.
“Hey!” he said as I set it on the table.
“You haven’t been worried enough to share,” I said, smiling at him.
He made a face. “I have too been worried. But you’re here now.”
“I am,” I said.
Marvella set the plate of fried chicken on the table, and gave us each a biscuit. The biscuits steamed. Before she sat down, she went over and turned off the television.
“Hey!” Jimmy said for the second time. “You said I could watch.”
“Not during dinner,” she said. “We have things to discuss.”
And we did. Jimmy’s homework. The Chicago Seven Trial, which was in the news today for not havin
g much news. The Panther Trial. Lacey going home.
Jimmy finished first, of course, and asked if he could be excused.
“Only if you go finish your homework,” I said.
“’Kay.” He set his plate beside the sink, then grabbed that book and flopped on the couch. I almost told him to go to his room, but Marvella had promised him television.
“When we’re done here,” I said softly to her, “may I discuss something with you?”
“We can talk about it now,” she said.
I shook my head, and glanced toward Jimmy. He was sprawled on his stomach, his feet crossed at the ankles and swinging in the air.
“No, you can’t,” Jim said, getting my point before Marvella did. “Because ‘little pitchers have big ears.’”
I raised my eyebrows at her, and smiled just a little. She laughed. “Sure. In my apartment. Your office is too small.”
I almost protested, but we would be across the hall. And I really didn’t want Jimmy to hear any of this conversation.
Marvella and I finished dinner. There was some chicken left over, and she didn’t want it. I wrapped it and put it in the fridge, along with six biscuits. Marvella took the remaining three to her apartment. She was going to put on coffee.
I rinsed the dishes and stacked them. I would do them when I got back.
“No TV until you’re done,” I said to Jimmy as I got ready to leave. “I’ll be right across the hall.”
“I’m not a baby,” he said.
I knew that. I even knew better than to tell him where I would be. But I was feeling incredibly overprotective at the moment.
I took my keys, and locked Jimmy in. Then I knocked on Marvella’s door.
It took her a minute to open it. She had changed into an orange and brown caftan, and put a beaded orange headband on to keep her hair out of her eyes.
“Come on in,” she said.
The apartment’s familiar sandalwood scent mixed with coffee. She had already set two coffee cups on the table, along with some chocolate chip cookies. An extra plate of cookies sat to one side, with Saran Wrap covering it.
She saw me looking at it as I sat down. “I figured you could take some to Jimmy.”
“You’re being awfully kind,” I said.
“I’m making a mental note,” she said. “I figure you’ll have to repay me at some point.”
Her tone was light, but serious. She meant it. I made note as well. I would repay her as soon as I could.
“What couldn’t Jimmy hear?” Marvella poured our coffees. “He’s already pretty deep in this.”
“Not this deep,” I said. “I was wondering you know of anyone who rehabilitates prostitutes. There’s dozens of women there. Maybe Helping Hands could take them in…?”
Helping Hands was a charity Laura had funded and Marvella helped run. It found employment and housing for the homeless families that I came across while inspecting Sturdy’s buildings. At least, that was how it started. It also helped others that some of the founders deemed appropriate.
“No.” Marvella stood beside me, still holding the coffee pot.
I was startled at her response. “That was quick. I’m sure some of the women we’ve helped have been prostitutes.”
“They have been,” Marvella said, “and they’re the toughest cases. They’re also usually addicts who don’t want to go to rehab. A couple of them have brought men to the temporary housing we’ve put them in. They’ve caused a lot of complaints in the neighborhoods. The staff asked that we try not to bring in working prostitutes anymore.”
“Is that fair?” I asked. “These women had to make a living when they were homeless—”
“Yeah, they did.” She took the coffee pot back to the stove. “The problem is that they only know one way to do to earn money. Then they get sick or they take drugs to cover up how they feel, and the whole cycle starts all over again.”
“So, you know of no way to help prostitutes?” I wasn’t sure I believed it, yet it sounded true. Could experience take someone so far from “normal” life that they couldn’t be rehabilitated? Part of me refused to believe that. “In other words, these women are just stuck.”
“They have to choose to get out on their own. They can’t just quit the life because some guy comes in and breaks up a brothel.” Marvella sat down. “The women that try to get out on their own have a tough enough time. One financial problem, and they want to solve it the easy way rather than hunt for a job or come back to us for more training or ask for help. They have no self-esteem, and that makes them almost impossible to work with.”
“All of the women I’ve brought you have no self-esteem,” I said. “They’re homeless, squatting in a place not their own, usually running from abusive men—”
“They got out,” Marvella said. “That takes self-esteem. It’s usually buried, but it’s there. Prostitutes, hell, they have nothing left.”
“And we should accept that,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “If you can find someone to help them, more power to you. You asked me if we could help them. I said no.”
I picked up my coffee cup, just to give myself something to hide behind. Marvella usually had answers on these women’s issues. She knew how to solve things. She knew people who had found solutions if she couldn’t solve it herself.
I’d never heard her be so negative before.
“You’re saying I should just let them go,” I said.
She took a sip from her own cup. We were two neighbors, discussing prostitutes over coffee. It felt strange.
“I don’t know what else you can do,” Marvella said.
I set my cup down. “But what about the kids?”
“Kids?” she asked.
“I found out that there are other girls at the hotel. They’re called new girls, and I’m pretty sure that’s where Lacey would have been if Jimmy and Keith hadn’t saved her.”
Marvella set her cup down so hard I thought she would break the saucer. “Girls?” she repeated. “Like Lacey?”
I nodded.
“Roaming free?” Marvella asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I can’t get to them. I think they’re in the process of having the self-esteem beaten out of them.”
Marvella winced.
“But I have an idea about how to rescue them,” I said. “The question is what happens after I get them out.”
She picked up her spoon and tapped its edge against the table. I wasn’t sure she knew she was doing it.
“What do you mean what happens after they get out?” she asked. “You take them to their families.”
I shook my head. “I suspect most of the families are nothing like the Grimshaws. And the Grimshaws are having enough trouble dealing with the attack on Lacey. I’m not sure they would know how to handle it if she’d been imprisoned too.”
I wasn’t sure I would have known how to handle it either.
Marvella set the spoon down. She leaned back in her chair. “Maybe we treat them the way that we’re going to treat Lacey. Like an assault victim, not like a prostitute.”
That made sense to me. And I had to ask: “Wouldn’t that make sense for the women who’d been working as prostitutes? Aren’t they victims?”
Marvella’s eyes narrowed. “One problem at a time. How do you plan to get the girls out?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “I’m working alone here. I have some ideas, but it’ll be hard since it’s just me.”
She ran a fingertip around the rim of the cup. It made a ringing sound. “You can’t do this by yourself. If those girls truly have been imprisoned and assaulted, it won’t matter if it’s you or you and an army, they won’t be easy to get out of that building.”
“You’d think they’d want to escape,” I said.
“They’ll be too afraid,” she said. “Besides, you’re a man. They won’t know if they can trust you.”
I flashed on Lacey, kicking the doctor. And she had been attacked only the on
ce.
“So what do I do?” I asked.
“I might know some women who can help,” Marvella said.
“You said the women you know can’t fight,” I said.
“I said I didn’t know if they could fight.” She spoke clearly. She almost sounded irritated. “I know they can convince abused girls to leave a room.”
I shook my head. “I am not taking any women in there.”
Marvella smiled at me. “We’re tougher than you think, Mr. Grimshaw.”
“It’s too dangerous,” I said. “What if they catch you? Jesus, Marvella, the people who run that place know how to hurt women and make it last.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “The women I would bring with me all know.”
“You can’t defend yourselves and I can’t defend you,” I said. “I’ll have enough trouble—”
“We can defend ourselves, or at least some of my friends can. The rest of us will rely on them and we’ll get those girls out. I’m sensing you don’t even know how many girls are trapped in that hotel.”
I let out a breath. She caught me there.
“No,” I said, “I don’t.”
“So you’re going to go in there, all James Bond, and get a dozen scared and battered young girls out of a hotel under the noses of their captors, without help, and without scaring any of the girls?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds stupid and impossible.” I ran a hand across my forehead. Saying things out loud did that some times.
“By yourself, yes,” she said. “But there are quiet times, right? Times when there are no clients?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s when I plan to go in.”
“Chances are they won’t have a lot of security, and what security they have won’t be expecting it. We’ll get the girls into vans, and we’ll get them away. We’re probably going to have to take them to the hospital and get them some treatment. Helping Hands can pay for that.”
I didn’t say anything. I hated the idea of a gang of women going into a brothel. “You’re going to go all Carrie Nation on me, aren’t you?” I asked, thinking of the famous turn-of-the-century reformer who went into bars with axes and attacked men.
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