Precious Cargo

by Clyde W. Ford

  “Please, mister. Please, open the door and let me in.”

  I stopped my car, rolled down the window slightly, and raised my head toward the oncoming car. “Your pimp?”

  Monique’s body shook. Her voice now sounded like a child’s. “Please, let me in. Danny’ll kill me.”

  ten

  Danny’s car came closer.

  “Tell me what you know,” I said.

  Monique banged on the window. “You gotta let me in.”

  “Three young women were murdered. If you know anything, I need it.”

  Danny had come to within half a block. His headlights illuminated the terror in Monique’s eyes. She looked at Danny, then at me. She closed her eyes. “Okay. I’ll tell you.” I hit a switch and the door locks clicked. Monique whipped the door open just as Danny pulled up in his black van.

  Danny rolled down the window and stuck his head out. He looked to be a man in his late twenties, with long dark hair tied into a ponytail. He rested his elbow on the window frame with his bulging biceps in plain view beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt, rolled up to display a scorpion tattoo. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

  “Yo, Monique, everything all right over there?”

  Monique flashed Danny a smile. “Fine,” she said. That seductive, saccharine ring had returned. “Just a little preemptive negotiation.”

  Danny smiled. He shined a flashlight through the open window into my eyes. I bit my tongue and gave Danny a two-fingered salute. After he drove off, I turned to Monique and chuckled.

  “Preemptive negotiation?”

  Her body still shook. “Wrong words?” she asked.

  “Maybe closer to the truth than you realize.”

  “Look, if I don’t return with money for Danny I’ll be on the streets tomorrow with a black eye and bruises. Can we drive back to the parking lot? I’ll use my mouth however you want me to, but you have to pay me for my time.”

  I drove back over the first set of railroad tracks into the parking lot by the water. I opened the glove compartment and a vanity light came on. I laid out the three photographs on the glove compartment’s small door.

  “Have you ever seen these women?”

  Monique lowered her head. I studied her facial expression. She looked from picture to picture. The lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth tightened.

  “It’s hard to say if I’ve ever seen them. You know, I see a lot of people in my line of work.”

  I grabbed her left arm. “Don’t bullshit me.”

  Her right arm moved toward her bag. I grabbed that arm too. She struggled with me. “What do you pack? A blade? A small-caliber pistol?”

  She lowered her head to bite me. Her teeth brushed my skin. I thrust her forearm up and into her throat hard. She gagged, then struggled for a breath. I ratcheted up the pressure, and she quickly gave up the fight.

  Monique whispered in a hoarse voice, “Maybe I know something.”

  I let her arm down, then pulled her purse from her side. I popped it open and took out a “ladies’ special”—a tiny .22 caliber pistol.

  I pointed the weapon at Monique. “Honey, this is what you use for preemptive negotiating,” I said. Then I slipped it into my pocket.

  “Look, two or three weeks ago, I’m just starting my shift at ten thirty at night. After my first trick, I see these three chiquitas working my part of the Ave.” Monique dropped her seductive voice in favor of a street-hardened one. “So I called Danny and asked him what the fuck happened. Had he suddenly gone south of the border on me or something? Danny went ballistic. He told me to disappear for a few hours and then show up for work again. When I came back after midnight, the chiquitas were gone, and I never saw them again. That’s all I know. That’s all I have to tell.”

  “Any of these pictures look like the women you saw that night?”

  “Let’s say they bear a strong resemblance to the chiquitas that tried to cut in on my business.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I handed Monique her purse, then I peeled five twenty-dollar bills from the roll in my pocket. “That enough?”

  She managed a weak smile. “You want change?”

  “No. Consider it a tip for great lip service.”

  “Can you drive me back to the Ave?”

  “That’s where I was headed. Sounds like I need to have a little talk with Danny the Pimp.”

  Monique’s body stiffened. She grabbed my arm. “Look, mister, Danny’ll kill me if he finds out that I told you about him and the chiquitas.”

  I took her arm from mine and squeezed it. “Danny won’t find out.”

  “Shit. My first trick tonight turned out to be some old geezer who only wanted to watch me get off. Then you come along. I shouldn’t have worked tonight.”

  “Maybe you should find another line of work altogether.”

  “Easy for you to say, mister. And do what?”

  “Get a job?”

  “Already got one. Make more money in one night than most people make in one week.”

  “And how much of that goes to Danny?”

  “Business overhead. Besides, I’m still young. I’ll work a few years. Sock away some cash, then get out.”

  “How many times do you think a woman just beginning her career on the streets has said that? Then at forty she’s still trying to turn tricks, only her Danny has long since moved on to younger women who fetch him more money?”

  “What the fuck do you know?”

  I stopped the car around the corner from the Horseshoe Café, and Monique stepped out. She leaned back inside with her hand out. I slapped her pistol in her hand. “Just so you know. I took the bullets out.”

  She snatched the pistol from me. “Fuck you.” Then she pulled her head from the car. Before she closed the door she peeked in and said in a loud voice filled with born-again seduction. “Baby, that was so good. Come back and visit Monique soon.” She brushed her skirt down over her behind, then strutted into the night.

  When I worked for the Coast Guard Investigative Service, we unraveled a base prostitution ring run by a rear admiral. Junior female officers, some even married, had worked as prostitutes. Johns included enlisted men and other officers. I remember a young ensign we interviewed before she went to the brig.

  “I did it for the thrill, the excitement, and the money at first,” she said. Then her head dropped. “I wanted to stop but I was told I’d never receive a promotion unless I continued to take on the men assigned to me. That’s when I knew I was trapped.”

  Denial is as powerful an urge as sex.

  I swung around the block and parked uphill from Railroad Avenue. Then I switched the lights off. With an unobstructed view of the street corner just up from the Horseshoe Café, in less than half an hour I watched four drug deals go down and six prostitutes pick up johns. Every so often a police car cruised by slowly, and the prostitutes and dealers vanished into cars or slunk into the shadows of alleys. But the moment the cruiser left, the avenue’s nightlife reemerged. This well-choreographed dance of law and disorder reminded me of a streetwise version of peekaboo.

  An hour into my surveillance, the black van I’d been hoping for pulled up to the corner. It stopped, but Danny kept the engine running. Monique and two other women sashayed over to the van. The side door slid open. The women stepped inside. Suddenly, Monique came flying out as though shot from a cannon. She landed on her ass. Monique buried her head in her hands for a moment before picking herself up and scurrying away, holding the side of her face. Danny had apparently reasserted himself as the preeminent preemptive negotiator.

  The other women left the van twenty minutes later. Their walk reminded me of how I must look making my way from the stern to the bow of the Noble Lady when she’s rolling in beam seas. An hour later, Danny’s van crawled around the corner again. Two different women sidled up to the side door, then stepped in, emerging later with that same wobbly walk. Danny must have given these women a little something to help take the edge off of their wor
k. What a considerate employer, concerned about the well-being of his workforce.

  When Danny’s van pulled away from the corner, I drove down a block and parked my car under a darkened streetlamp across the avenue and slightly down from where he met his girls. I looked both ways along Railroad Avenue, but I didn’t see the white police van. Perhaps they’d tired of watching these late-night reruns of crime drama.

  Like clockwork, an hour later, his black van materialized from the shadows at the far end of Railroad Avenue. I pulled my Browning from beneath my seat and pumped the action once to make certain I’d chambered a round. I clicked the safety off.

  Danny swung his van into the corner and stopped. I pushed my door open quietly and stepped from my car. In the middle of the block, two women pivoted around, then strolled arm in arm toward the van. One wore a skirt so short it could have doubled for a wide belt. The other had on pink boots and a pink cowgirl hat. I crossed the avenue and trailed them to the van. When the women reached the back of the van, the side door slid open. I raced in front of the women, leapt into the van, and slammed the door closed.

  I caught Danny’s neck in the crook of my arm. I tightened my fist and jerked his head back against the front seat. I buried the muzzle of my pistol deep into the base of his skull. He squirmed and tried to turn around. I flexed my arm tighter. Then I whispered in Danny’s ear.

  “Two hands on the wheel, sweetheart. If they leave it, you’re dead.”

  Danny mumbled, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Your trick for the night,” I said. “Now drive, and remember, if I don’t see both hands on the wheel at all times, the last sound you’ll hear is the click of this trigger.”

  Danny coughed and struggled to breathe. “Where to?”

  “How about the parking lot between the railroad crossings, near the old Georgia-Pacific plant?”

  “Don’t know it,” Danny said.

  “Sure you do.” I slapped the barrel of my pistol across the back of Danny’s head, hard. His body stiffened and he reached for his head. I flexed my arm tighter around his neck. “Two hands on the wheel, remember?”

  “Okay. Okay,” Danny said in a breathless voice. “The parking lot between the tracks. What, are you unhappy with what you got from one of my girls? Tell me who. Man, I’ll give you your money back and a free ride with someone new the next time.”

  I whipped my pistol across the other side of Danny’s head. His body rippled with a spasm of pain. I whispered in his ear again. “Hands on the wheel. Drive.”

  I kept my arm locked firmly around Danny’s neck and his head pulled back against the front seat. It forced him to drive stiff-armed down Railroad Avenue. When the avenue came to an end, we turned right, and a block later we turned left. We passed a train yard where an Amtrak train minus its engine slept.

  On the other side of the street, a thin steam cloud, turned orange by sodium lights, rose from a stack of the power plant that now occupied the former Georgia-Pacific site. After crossing the first track, Danny pulled into the parking lot that Monique had taken me to. He turned the engine off. I clamped down on his neck with my arm.

  “Both hands on the dashboard,” I said.

  When he placed them there, I pulled back even harder on his neck, which brought his head back over the seat. He gurgled, struggling to breathe. I slid the side door open. Then I reached outside the van and raised the door handle to open the driver’s door. I kicked it further open. I snapped Danny’s head back again, just to make sure he didn’t try to go for the pistol or knife I’m sure he had somewhere nearby. Danny coughed.

  “Get out. Hands behind your head. Lie face down on the ground,” I said.

  I helped him along by shoving his head toward the open door then grabbing him under the shoulder and yanking him out of the van. He rubbed his neck and turned to face me.

  “Hands behind your head and on the ground.”

  I motioned down with my pistol. When Danny placed his cupped hands behind his head, he winced.

  “I’m hurt.”

  “From the look of things, so was Monique.”

  Danny started to kneel, then rose to face me. “Hey, you’re the black guy that Monique took down here a little while ago. Something go wrong, pal?”

  I pointed to the ground, and he dropped to his knees.

  “On your face,” I said.

  “You the police?”

  Danny fell spread-eagle in the gravel of the parking lot. I dropped on top of his back. With one knee on his neck, I frisked him, pulling a large Bowie knife from a sheath at the small of his back. I threw it near the front wheel of the van. Then I patted down his legs.

  “A lot went wrong,” I said. “For starters, I have this crazy belief that women—all women—should be treated with respect. When I see a man hit a woman, my gut churns.”

  I found nothing on him other than the knife.

  “Hey, Monique can handle it. Fact is, I think she likes the physical contact. Lets her know how much I care.”

  “Get up,” I said. “Keep your hands behind your head.”

  Danny rose, and I spun him around to face me. I let the back of my hand crash into his cheek. My hand buzzed from the impact. In the faint glow of the lights from the power plant, I saw a trickle of blood ooze from the corner of Danny’s mouth. He licked it.

  “Feels good to know how much I care, doesn’t it?”

  Danny sneered. “You bastard. I’ve had enough of your—”

  He dived for his knife, but he only made it partway there. He lay sprawled in the gravel, his arm and fingers stretched out toward the weapon. I grabbed his ponytail and lifted his head. He got up onto his knees. I shoved my pistol into his temple and dragged him by the hair, crawling, to the front of his van.

  He didn’t move quickly enough for me, so I bounced his head off the front bumper. The bumper flexed as he hit. Danny groaned. I held onto his ponytail.

  “Three young Mexican women worked Railroad Avenue a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly they disappeared. What do you know about that?”

  “You like that brown coochie, huh? Thought a black guy like you would go for white pussy like Monique.”

  I pulled back on Danny’s head and let it fly into the bumper again. He squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head rapidly, as though trying to throw off the pain.

  “Wrong answer. Want to try again?”

  “Fuck you. What, did Monique tell you that I knew something about some chiquitas?”

  “No. Someone who knew the women said they may have worked as pros.”

  “Well, there’s your answer. Maybe they did. They sure weren’t mine.”

  I sailed Danny’s forehead into the bumper a third time.

  “Another wrong answer. You’re quickly losing the few brain cells that you have. Think hard before you answer again.”

  “Shoot me,” he said.

  I wrapped my hand around Danny’s hair, ready to send his head back into the bumper. I thought about slapping him with the pistol again, but I glimpsed the Bowie knife off to one side. I recalled the tale of Samson and Delilah. I tucked my gun into the waistband at the small of my back. I dragged Danny to the front wheel, where I reached down for his knife.

  “Hey, what are you fucking doing?” he shouted.

  I slashed through his hair just above my fist, which still left his ponytail almost shoulder length.

  “Giving you a trim,” I said.

  “Okay. Okay,” Danny said. “About two weeks ago, Monique calls me and tells me that chiquitas are working the avenue.”

  Apparently, Danny’s hair was also the source of his strength, and just like Samson, he didn’t want to lose it.

  Danny continued. “So I came down and had a little talk with them.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I pulled what remained of his hair taut.

  “Okay. Okay. So I came down and roughed them up a little. Hell, the bitches didn’t speak English. How else could I get my message across?”

  “T
hen what did you do with them?”

  “Whaddya mean, what did I do with them?”

  I jerked on his hair.

  “I left them at my house and called for them to be picked up.”

  It only took a slight pull of Danny’s hair.

  “Okay. Okay. I called a guy named Frank. . . . Only guy around I know who runs Mexican broads. . . . Thought they mighta belonged to him.”

  I had to pull harder this time. Danny huffed between words.

  “Okay. Okay. A Lebanese guy. . . . Frank Abadi. . . . Owns a strip club. . . . Runs his women out of there. . . . Off I-5 as you enter Mount Vernon.”

  “Club’s name?”

  “Two Lips or something like that. Shit. Mount Vernon ain’t that goddamn big and it’s the only one in town. . . . What happened, someone kill those girls?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Frank nearly killed ’em when he picked ’em up.”

  I yanked on Danny’s hair one more time, harder than before. “Man, please don’t cut off any more of my hair. The bitches love it long.”

  I put the knife to his hair and wanted to give him a crew cut. Instead, I flung the knife as far as I could. It splashed into the bay.

  “If I find out you’re lying to me . . . or if I find out you’ve hit Monique again . . . I’ll come after you and I’ll toss you in the bay with a bald head.”

  I dragged Danny by the hair up to his feet, pointed him in the direction of the road beyond the railroad tracks, and waved him on. “Start walking,” I said.

  Danny rubbed his head and shuffled off. Just before the tracks, he turned around. “Hey, what are you gonna do with my van?”

  “Give myself a ride back into town.”

  I left Danny’s van on Railroad Avenue, but tossed his keys down a sewer where he belonged. I drove back to the marina in my car. I checked the dashboard clock. The lighted blue display read 3:35. I thought about turning around and driving down to Mount Vernon, but Frederico Oller’s voice popped into my head: “Don’t rush into a piece too quickly. Study it. Sight-read it first. Then, when your hands touch the strings, they will be ready.”

  eleven

  A Bach fugue playing on my cell phone woke me from the depths of a dream about diving, in which I discovered a woman’s body underwater. I turned the lifeless body over, expecting to see a young Mexican woman, but instead I saw my late wife, Sharon.