Lost in Middle America

by Colin Conway

Violet looked down the street as Edith leaned into the passenger window of a Mercedes. A white man was behind the wheel. Violet shook her head. He must be slumming if he picked her over me, she thought.

  “I don’t like it,” Rachel said.

  “What about it don’t you like?”

  “He’s a pimp.”

  “So? We’ve hired girls before.”

  “I didn’t say I have a problem with the women, I said I have problem with him.”

  Rachel sat in the chair that was tucked in the corner of their hotel room.

  “You don’t know him.”

  Rachel shook her head. “I know his type. He manipulates women to get them to do what he wants.”

  “We manipulate people to get them to do what we want.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Rachel said. “He abuses women. We’ve never done that.”

  “That’s true, but we’ve hired muscle to hurt people when that’s been needed.”

  “You’re not seriously trying to rationalize his behavior?”

  Sam shook his head. “No. I know who he is and what he’s done. I also know that he helped me out when I started in this game. He never crossed me even when I made mistakes. He always played it square.”

  Rachel pursed her lips as she studied Sam.

  “If you don’t want to do this,” Sam told her, “we won’t.”

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  Sam lowered his head. “Okay.”

  “What?”

  “I said, okay. We won’t do this.”

  Rachel stood and put her hands on her hips. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I don’t understand,” Sam said. “I agreed with you.”

  “We drove all the way down here from Cleveland and you’re going to give up that easy?”

  “You said you didn’t want to do it. I’m trying to be agreeable.”

  Rachel waved her hand dismissively. “Fine.”

  “Fine what?” Sam asked. “What does that mean?”

  Rachel dropped back into the chair. “It means I’ll listen to what he has to say. If I don’t like it, well, I’m out of this deal. If that happens, I’m assuming you’re out, too?”

  “I already said that.”

  “Good.”

  “What just happened here?” Sam asked.

  “I’m just reminding you who’s in charge of this operation.”

  “That was never in question.”

  She opened the door to her apartment and immediately smelled the thick, musky aroma of marijuana. Her chest tightened for a brief second before she relaxed. She closed the door and turned on the light.

  In the corner, a tall, thin black man sat. His right leg was crossed over the left and he casually smoked a dark cigarette. He wore black pants, a red club shirt, and a Kangol hat.

  “Where ya been, baby?” Lobo asked.

  Violet smirked. “You know where I been, daddy. I’m tired after working the street for you.”

  “I didn’t see you once last night. You sure you weren’t sitting on your ass somewhere, trying to avoid work?”

  She reached into her purse, removed a large wad of bills, and tossed them into his lap. Then she reached inside her bra for a smaller wad and tossed those bills to him as well. “I was working.”

  Lobo collected the cash with one hand and shoved it into his pocket without counting it. “Looks like a decent night.”

  Violet removed a pack of Marlboro Lights from her purse and pulled a single cigarette free. “It was good, daddy.”

  She lit up and watched the pimp.

  He inhaled from the joint and, after holding the air for a time, let out a slow exhale.

  “Did you already collect from the others?” Violet asked. “Did they do as well as me?”

  Lobo’s lips twisted into a snarl. “Don’t ask me my business, bitch. Just keep your ass to the grind stone and shut the fuck up.”

  Violet lowered her eyes as she lifted the cigarette to her lips.

  They remained quiet for a few moments. Lobo slowly smoked from his joint as he watched Violet. She was his newest girl and now his best producer. She knew he thought he had to stay vigilant about her, but she hated the way he belittled her to keep her in her place.

  Finally, he said, “You look good in purple, baby. My Violet girl.”

  Violet forced a smiled and crushed out her cigarette. She stretched her arms in the air, tired from a long night on the street.

  Lobo crinkled his nose. “Damn, you smell funky as hell, woman. I can smell your ass from here. Go wash yourself and then get in bed.”

  Violet’s smile faded.

  “I want to spend some time with my favorite girl.”

  “Okay, daddy,” she said and walked into the bathroom. She left the door open as she started the shower. Lobo hated if she closed a door around him. Even if she had to use the toilet he wanted to know what she was doing.

  She thought about telling him what Edith had said about the bank closing, but she kept it to herself. Maybe she would tell him later. She sort of enjoyed the idea of Lobo having to deal with the government to get his treasures out.

  It wouldn’t hurt none to play with that idea for a little bit, would it?

  “Lobo was the reason I fell,” Bigs said. “He brought me down with some dirty cops. They stopped me and accused me of running girls. I did my best to talk my way out of it, but they weren’t having none of it. Those cops were already bought and paid for. I didn’t have a chance. When they put the cuffs on, somehow, magically, several grams of H made its way into my pocket.”

  Rachel studied the big man seated across from her as she searched for the truth in his words. When her eyes shifted to Sam, he asked the question she was thinking.

  “Was the heroin yours?” Sam asked.

  Bigs smirked. “Man, I ain’t no prude, but I never rode the horse. I smoked weed and snorted a little coke, but never, ever, had heroin been in my possession. Didn’t matter what I said, though, because that jury sided with the cops and they sent me upstate to Albion. Three years later I walked out of prison and immediately started tracking Lobo.”

  They were back at The Blarney but this time Rachel had joined them.

  “It took some time, but I finally found him in Cincinnati coming out of a bar. He had a couple young girls with him. He was doing the show and tell. You know what I mean? Why they should whore for him? I’d seen it done before when I was coming up and I’d done it so many times myself I can’t remember. Anyways, I bum rushed the bastard when he hit the street. I lost all cool and just went after the man. Unfortunately, he’s just a better fighter than me. I was strong from my time inside, but it didn’t matter. The motherfucker was jackrabbit fast. He beat me like a dog. I think he would have killed me if there wouldn’t have been so many watchers standing by. I ended up in the hospital for a couple days after that.” He pointed at his face. “These scars are from him. You might not know it, but I use to be quite handsome.”

  Rachel politely smiled.

  “I told Rachel you hated him, so she’s got enough of that backstory,” Sam said. “What we need to know is what’s in it for us? Why should we get involved with your payback?”

  “My honor isn’t enough?” Bigs asked, flashing a smile.

  “Honor doesn’t beat a woman,” Rachel said.

  Bigs studied Rachel for a moment before saying to Sam, “She’s a firecracker.”

  “You can talk to me,” Rachel said. “Unless you feel a need to talk down to a woman.”

  “No, ma’am. I apologize for that. I don’t talk down to a woman unless she’s my bitch.”

  Rachel started to say something, but Sam squeezed her hand under the table.

  “We ain’t here for a lecture or to debate the merits of pimpology,” Bigs said. “You’re not going to change my mind and I’m not going to change yours and we sure as hell ain’t going to change the world. It’s a mean and tough place and we’re all d
oing our best to live in it.”

  Rachel turned to Sam. “I’m almost out of patience.”

  “Get to it, Bigs,” Sam said.

  “He’s got a lockbox.”

  “A lockbox?” Rachel asked.

  “Yeah, one of those lockboxes at a bank.”

  Rachel glanced at Sam before saying, “You mean a safe deposit box?”

  Bigs shrugged. “Right, a safe deposit box. He’s got one of them.”

  “So?”

  “The man is paranoid. It’s part of the business of being a pimp. Paranoia. Everyone’s coming to get him or to take away what he’s acquired. He’s always got to be ready to pack and run at a moment’s notice. A pimp can’t put his money in the bank and stuffing it under his mattress is just asking for a whore to shank him. If we get him to remove the box, we can take it from him.”

  “We don’t strong arm,” Sam said.

  “He’s not a man to be trifled with,” Bigs said. “Strong arming may be the best option.”

  “That’s not what we do. If you want that kind of help, you need someone else.”

  “What’s in the box?” Rachel asked.

  “A number of things.”

  “Like?”

  Bigs looked back and forth between Sam and Rachel. He looked down for a moment, then up to face Rachel. “Could be anything. I don’t really know for sure.”

  Rachel shook her head then turned to Sam. “We’re talking about a job concerning a safe deposit box which we don’t know the contents of? I’m done. This wasn’t worth the detour.”

  She slid out of the booth and stood.

  “I do know he has a comic book in there,” Bigs said, “but beyond that I don’t know what else.”

  “A comic book?”

  Bigs nodded, glanced at Sam and then looked back to Rachel.

  “A comic book?” Rachel repeated. “What the hell does that mean to me?”

  “It’s an Avengers number one.”

  She shrugged. “That still means nothing. Speak English.”

  “It’s worth thirty-five grand.”

  Rachel sat back down. “Okay, now you’ve got my attention.”

  They walked into The Comic Book Shop in downtown Lima. Rachel approached the counter and waited for the gray-haired clerk to notice her. He was tall and lanky and dressed in an orange Aquaman T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and red Converse tennis shoes.

  Rachel was dressed in a dark blue pant suit. Sam stood near the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He was in a black suit, white-collared shirt, and black tie. He wore sunglasses and kept his focus outside the door.

  “Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

  Rachel quickly flashed an identification wallet and said, “Agent Thompson with the Internal Revenue Service.”

  The clerk stepped backwards and bumped into the rear counter.

  Rachel thumbed towards Sam. “That’s Agent Decker from Secret Service. They provide back-up for us when we do high-risk contacts.”

  “High risk? Me?”

  “You’re Andrew Hoffman, right? This is your comic book store, correct?”

  “Yeah, but I pay my taxes. I’m not high risk.”

  “Do you know this, man?” Rachel held up her phone and showed a picture of a black male. The picture had been taken by Bigs several weeks prior and texted to her at their meeting in Toledo.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know him.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Lobo.”

  “Lobo,” Rachel said with disdain. “You’re claiming you don’t know his real name?”

  Andrew looked between Rachel and Sam several times before saying. “Trace Williams. That’s his name.” His voice shook and he spoke quickly. “He prefers Lobo, though. It’s a nickname he picked from a comic book.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Seriously. It was the first comic to be led by a black character. Produced by Dell Comics. They’re not around anymore. Anyways, it was about a black cowboy named Lobo. Took place after the Civil War. Wasn’t that great, really,” he said, his voice trailing off. Rachel’s expression had flattened then turned to impatience while Andrew spoke. “You didn’t come here for a comic book lesson, did you?”

  “In a way. We were led to believe that he bought an Avengers number one from you.”

  Andrew held up his hands defensively. “No, no, he didn’t buy that from me. If I had sold that to him, I would have the records for it.”

  Rachel glanced at Sam then back to the Andrew. “Where did he get it then?”

  “Maybe he got it from some other store. No, wait, he told me where he got that one. He got that one at a convention. The Chicago Comic-con.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Yeah, he brought it here to get it signed by Stan Lee.”

  Rachel stared at Andrew.

  “Stan ‘The Man’? May he rest in peace.” Andrew looked to Sam who glowered back. “Geez, people, the guy created Marvel. He was a cultural icon. Tell me you’ve seen the movies.”

  “I’m too busy,” Rachel said, “dealing with criminals and their accomplices.”

  Andrew’s eyes widened to show he understood the not-so-subtle threat.

  “How did you see this comic book?” Rachel asked.

  “He brought it to me so we could send it in for Stan’s signature.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Andrew clapped his hands in frustration. “Okay, okay, let me explain.” He turned to the back counter and grabbed a comic book that was encased in hard plastic. His voice and manner had gained the confidence of an expert in his field. “This is a CGC graded comic book. It stands for Certified Guaranty Company, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is the little number in the corner of the plastic case.” Andrew tapped the upper left corner of the case. “This comic book has a grade of nine-point-eight. The closer to ten the better. This is a new comic, so it should be nine-point-eight or ten. Older comics, though, were treated rough. People didn’t collect them like they do now, so they could be graded a six and still be worth something. Does this make sense so far?”

  Rachel nodded. Sam stopped watching the exterior to move closer to the front counter so he better understood the explanation.

  Andrew tapped in the middle of the case’s header. “There’s also a registration number here with its own UPC code. That way you can jump online and make sure you’ve got the real deal if you’re looking at a book.”

  “Is there any way to counterfeit one of these?” Rachel asked.

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “Not a chance. You gotta get past the case which if you try to open without the special tools will crack and show damage. I mean, if you could do that then maybe, but you’d have to get someone from CGC involved. It ain’t going to happen. That’s why people buy these books. You can trust the process.”

  Rachel glanced at Sam who nodded back.

  “So what Lobo did,” Andrew continued, “was bring in a comic that he already owned. Before Stan passed away, it was popular to send a high-grade comic in to get his autograph. Doing so gave it an automatic pop in value. You can get others to sign these books, but Stan was the holy grail. I mean, he was responsible for most of the modern superhero mythos. You really never heard of him? Wow. Anyway, CGC charges for this service at conventions. They open the case and then have whoever you want scribble their name. Once it’s done, the signature is authenticated by the CGC team, the comic is resealed and then sent back.”

  “Why does Lobo—”

  The front door had opened and a young, black male entered. He wore a Punisher T-shirt and khaki shorts. His eyes widened as he saw Andrew talking with Rachel and Sam. He immediately stopped, turned around, and left.

  Rachel raised her eyebrows at Sam who shrugged in return. She then continued her question to Andrew, “Why does Lobo bring the comic book to you for Stan Lee’s signature? Why not send it in himself?”

  “He needs
to go through a comic shop. It’s part of the rules. Plus, we’re insured. It’s safer for everyone.”

  “You charge a fee for this?”

  Andrew’s confidence slipped. “I report it on my taxes.”

  “We’re worried about Mr. Williams, not you. Has he done this with other books?”

  Andrew smiled. “Oh, yeah. We’ve done it multiple times. He’s laddering up all of his books.”

  “Laddering up?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah. For example, he had a seven-point-five Daredevil . Then he sold that and traded up to a nine-point-oh. We sent that in for Stan’s signature. Just got it back a week ago, in fact.”

  “What’s that book worth?”

  “Fifteen to seventeen thousand.”

  Rachel said, “You’re kidding me.”

  Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “I never kid about the value of comics. It’s a serious business.”

  “How many books does Mr. Williams have?”

  Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. He doesn’t keep any of the new stuff he buys to read.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He buys new comics but gives them away after he reads them. Neighborhood kids. At least, that’s what he’s told me. Anyway, as far as I know, he’s only focusing high grade CGC books. From the sounds of it, I think he has five or six maybe. Not a lot.”

  “Do you remember any of the others you’ve seen?” Rachel asked.

  They talked for another twenty minutes about comics. When they were done, Rachel said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hoffman. You’ve been very helpful.”

  He nodded, looking at both Rachel and Sam.

  “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this,” Rachel said, “but I’m going to anyway—”

  “Don’t call Lobo,” Andrew quickly interjected.

  “Because if you do…?” Sam asked.

  “You’ll come back?”

  “Not me,” Sam said and pointed at Rachel. “She and her friends at the IRS. This business you got. It’s a nice set-up. I’m sure there are a lot of cash transactions, or trades, or who knows what. But her friends will open your books and take a good hard look at what you do. Understand?”