by Tom Fowler
“Same one?”
“I try to, yeah.”
“You get a cut?” I asked.
“I thought you didn’t care?”
“I like to be thorough.”
“Sure, I get a cut,” he said after a sigh.
“She make the deal herself?”
“No, Johnny Cochran came in and negotiated for her.”
I gave the oily man a thin smile. “Look, asshole. You just admitted you have an arrangement with a prostitute. I’m guessing you have arrangements with more than one. You can either fake-smile your way through my questions, or I can call some friends in the BPD, and you can answer theirs.”
He shook his head. I hoped nothing flew off it. “No. No, someone set it up with me.”
“Her pimp?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Black dude but light-skinned. Kinda tall . . . a little taller than you. Pretty slim. Doesn’t dress like a pimp.”
“All right. Thanks. I’m going to wait and talk to the girl.”
“Try not to scare off my customers.”
“It could only improve your clientele.” I left to wait in my car. Before I got in, I checked my clothes to make sure none of the taint from the office rubbed off on me.
* * *
About forty minutes later, Ruby and her john came out of room six, three doors to my left. I got out of the car and walked toward them while they chatted. They both peered at me as I approached. The john gave me a look like I intruded on something. “Ruby, I need a few minutes of your time,” I said.
“I charge by the hour,” she said, sizing me up.
“Take a walk, Jack,” the john said. “The lady and I are talking.”
“Your hour is up.”
He turned to face me. This fellow was an inch or two shorter and about fifty pounds heavier. His combover, tussled from his tryst, couldn’t hide his large bald spot. When he snarled at me, I noticed missing teeth. This was exactly the kind of man I would expect to patronize a prostitute. “I told you to beat it.”
“I only need to talk to the girl.”
He threw a punch at me. I blocked it. Undeterred, he threw another. I blocked this one and countered with a sharp left to the solar plexus. He took a step back and sucked wind. “Why don’t you beat it?” I said. “This is only going to get worse for you.”
He shambled to an old pickup truck, got in, and drove off with screeching tires. Ruby, to her credit, didn’t run away. I didn’t know if the fact made her brave or simply foolish. The line is often thin “We need to talk,” I said.
Chapter 2
Ruby eyed me warily as we leaned on the Caprice. “You a cop?” she said. “This is a cop’s car.”
I figured she had more expertise with police cars than I. “I’m not,” I said, showing her my ID.
“Rollins send you?”
“He asked me to look into something for you, yes.”
“What did he tell you about it?”
“He said you’re convinced you have a stalker, but he’s never seen anyone stalker-ish around.”
“Yeah,” Ruby said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t show up in any kind of pattern.”
“Why don’t we go somewhere and talk about it?”
“I’m working.”
“I’ll pay your rate.”
She walked to the passenger’s side of the Caprice. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I drove a couple miles up Route 40 into the county to find a place open after midnight. We ended up at the Happy Day Diner. Both the outside and the inside looked like they had seen happier days over a decade ago. There is a difference between retro and old. Many diners are retro, paying homage to their heyday by decorating as if it were still the 1950s. The Happy Day was simply old. The benches were patchy and in some cases, even the duct tape strained to hold them intact. The décor begged for a refresh a few years ago. The staff looked like they’d rather be working anywhere else.
Our waitress strolled to us and pretended to be interested in what we ordered. Ruby got a coffee; I opted for a decaf, not wanting the caffeine so late and hoping the pot still clung to some freshness. “Let’s talk,” I said.
“Money first,” said Ruby.
“You’re a shrewd businesswoman,” I said. Her expression didn’t change. She would have fit in with the diner staff. “What’s the rate?”
“Eighty for a half-hour, one-fifty for the full.” She had the sense to lower her voice. The diner was about half full.
I slid her the money across the table. “For an hour, just in case.”
“A lot of guys say that,” she said with a smirk.
“I guess you don’t offer refunds for unused time?”
She showed me a smile. “Nope.”
Our waitress brought the coffees. I added a pack of raw sugar—which surprised me in a place like this—and enough half-and-half to turn it a pleasing brown. Ruby added three packs of regular sugar and no creamer. I took a tentative sip. It packed a strong taste but lacked freshness. Still, it tasted better than the swill brewed by the Baltimore Police Department.
“Do you want to give me a name other than Ruby?” I said.
She shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe never.”
“All right. Tell me what’s going on.”
“There’s a guy I see around every now and then.” I waited for her to elaborate, but all she did was sip her coffee.
“No offense, but I’m sure there are a lot of guys you see around every now and then.”
“This is different. He’s always trying to hide somewhere, you know? Like he’s in the shadow of a building or a car across the street.”
“You recognize him?”
“No.” She shook her head again, though not as hard as before. Her hair barely moved this time.
I decided not to press her. “How long has he been around?”
“I don’t know. A couple weeks, I guess.”
Our waitress returned. Ruby asked for a pancake breakfast with bacon and sausage; I declined to order anything. When the waitress left, I said, “Don’t you have a means of protection?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I meant your pimp.”
Ruby sighed. “He’s good to me. Treats all his girls well, and that’s pretty rare. He doesn’t follow us around and hassle us. It’s kinda like he trusts us to go out and get the work done. He takes his cut. If he has to be around more to protect us, the cut is higher.”
“Interesting business model.”
“It works pretty well.”
“You ever need him to help you deal with anyone?” I said.
“Nah. I’ve taken some self-defense classes. I know where to kick a guy.”
“Have you told him about this stalker?”
“Not yet,” she said. “If he hangs around more, I lose money.”
“Saving for a rainy day?”
“I don’t want to do this forever. I have plans.”
“You have a steady place to live?”
“I stay at a couple places,” Ruby said with a shrug.
“You’re not telling me a lot about this stalker.”
“You’re not asking me a lot about him.”
“Rollins said you were scared.” I watched her for any change of expression. She would make a good poker player. “You don’t seem scared to me,” I said.
She eyed the people sitting near us. They hadn’t taken any interest in our conversation so far. “I’m spooked, OK? I don’t spook easily.”
“You don’t seem like you would. Is there anything you can tell me about this stalker? Any particular nights he’s around. Any area you see him more than others?”
“No, it’s pretty random.”
Our conversation bordered on non-productive. I hadn’t learned much besides Ruby’s coffee preference and late-night eating habits. “You said he’s sometimes in a car. Do you know what kind of car?”
“No,” she said with a shake of he
r head. “I haven’t kept up with cars, really. It looks like an expensive ride, though. Not like yours.”
“My other car is an Audi,” I said.
“His car might be an Audi. Maybe a Benz. I’m not sure. It looks foreign and pricey.”
The waitress brought Ruby’s food. She dove into it like it was her first meal in days. I’d gotten used to Gloria slathering pancakes in butter and using enough syrup to give a diabetic a contact buzz. Ruby dabbed on the butter they gave her in the small dish and only about half the syrup in the mini decanter. She cut the pancakes as she ate them, placed her napkin on her lap except when she dabbed her mouth with it, and kept her elbows off the table. This was a lady of manners. How did she end up a prostitute?
“If I’m going to see this guy, I’m going to need to hang around you.”
“I know,” she acknowledged.
“I won’t get in the way. You’ll need to let me know if you see the stalker.” I gave her a business card. She added my number to her phone.
“I have your info,” she said, sliding the card back to me. “I’d rather not be seen with your card. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Ruby finished her food and glanced at her watch. “We still have forty minutes. You wanna fuck?”
“No, thanks.”
“You married?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
I paused. “Yes.”
“You sure?” she said with a grin.
“I’m still getting used to the relationship idea.”
“Sure you don’t wanna fuck, then?”
“You’re a nice girl, and you’re very attractive, but I don’t sleep with prostitutes.”
“You just protect them from their stalkers.”
“So it seems,” I said.
“You’re weird, C.T.”
“Ah, now you have me at a disadvantage. You got my name, and I don’t have yours.”
“I don’t know your name,” she pointed out. “Only your initials.”
She had me there. “Fair enough.”
“You going to follow me around tonight?”
“Maybe. I have some people I want to talk to first. I’d like you to text me the hours you usually work, though. I’ll need to know when I should be around.”
“I will.”
I paid the check when the waitress dropped it off. She didn’t offer to refill our coffees; normally, I would consider her neglect poor service but in this case, she may have spared us further pain. Ruby and I got back into the Caprice. I dropped her off across from the Gold Club. She promised to call me if she saw her stalker, regardless of when it was.
I told her I needed to talk to some other people, and I did. Cases involving hookers made me keep odd hours.
* * *
A previous investigation involving gang violence brought me into contact with a pimp named Romeo who began as a gangbanger. I’ve had a couple occasions to consult with him since then. He came with his large and menacing shadow, Tank, who possessed the most apt nickname in all of Baltimore. Romeo occupied a chair at a table in Crazy John’s. Tank dominated the seat he’d taken. Crazy John’s would not have appeared near the top of the list of places I wanted to go, but when one is meeting a pimp on the wrong side of midnight, one takes what one can get.
I slid onto a chair opposite Romeo and Tank. “Gentlemen,” I said.
“My girls are out there makin’ money without me,” Romeo said. “Let’s get to talkin’.” Tank, as usual, remained quiet.
“I’ve become acquainted with a working girl. She says she has a stalker problem.”
“Does she?”
“I don’t know yet. She says her pimp is really hands-off. He trusts the girls to do the work and takes his cut but isn’t around a lot. If he has to be around to handle business, the rate goes up. You know anyone who fits the description?”
“No, man. I don’t talk to stupid pimps.” Tank chuckled at his boss’ comment.
“I take it this laissez faire system is not a business model you would support?”
Now Romeo laughed. “No way. You can’t be all hands-off. The girls need to know you’ll be around. They might need you.”
“Maybe geography would help,” I said. “The girl works Route Forty, the corridor near the Gold Club.”
“Tank, who’s that guy over there? Skinny cat.”
“I think it’s Shade,” said Tank.
“There you go. Shade. He’s her pimp.”
“I might need to talk to Shade.”
Romeo shook his head. “I wouldn’t. If he don’t like to be around, the girl won’t want him to be. You going to be hanging around her?”
“Some of the time. I can’t be there all the time.”
“She got anyone else lookin’ after her?” asked Romeo.
“She hired someone. He referred her to me, but I think he’s still going to check on her.”
“He sweet on her?”
“Definitely not. Any of your girls get stalked?”
“Here and there. Never for long, though.” Romeo and Tank bumped knuckles.
“Are they normally just johns who can’t let go?” I said.
“I guess. I don’t ask them too many questions. Your girl get a look at this guy?”
“No . . . she says he always finds enough darkness so she can’t see him well.”
“You think she’s lying?”
I frowned in thought. “I think she has a suspicion who it is, but I think she’s telling the truth about not seeing him.”
“Sounds like you got an interesting case.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Me and Tank gotta get back to work. Next time you call, I’m makin’ you get food from a nice place.”
I spread my hands wide and looked around. “And what do you call this?”
“A shithole,” said Romeo.
I couldn’t argue.
* * *
Weariness hit me when I got home. In my college days, I could stay up past 2:00 AM, get up not five hours later for class, sail through the day, and woo a coed at night. As the specter of thirty stared me down, though, it wasn’t the case anymore. I crawled into bed a bit before two. Gloria woke up long enough to mumble something at me, then went back to sleep. I joined her within a minute.
Someone shaking me roused me. I opened my eyes. Gloria sat on the edge of the bed, her hand on my shoulder. Sunlight peeked through the blinds behind her, illuminating her chestnut hair as it framed her face. I couldn’t recall seeing her look more beautiful that she did in this moment. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said, sporting a lopsided grin.
I looked at my phone; it was 9:45. I hadn’t slept so long without the aid of Percocet in quite some time. “Do I need to?” I said, still feeling tired.
“Remember, we have that luncheon today.”
“It’s today? I forgot all about it.”
“I thought you might have. That’s why I had your gray suit dry-cleaned during the week.”
“I know what I’m wearing. Even better. Did you make breakfast, too?”
Gloria raised an eyebrow and snorted delicately. “Why do you think I woke you up?”
I figured as much, and I felt relieved. Gloria could not be trusted in the kitchen. She could use the coffee maker, pour cereal, and make toast, but beyond those basics, I wanted the fire department and Gordon Ramsay on speed dial. I tried to show her how to make pancakes once. A debacle of flour clouds and spilled batter convinced me never to try again.
I trudged downstairs, opened the refrigerator, and took inventory of the contents. I found eggs, pico de gallo, and shredded mozzarella cheese in abundance. The rest of my shelves yearned for a trip to the grocery store. For today, I would make omelets. I oiled two small pans and put them on the stove to heat while I cracked the eggs into a cup, added a splash of water, and mixed them with a fork. I poured some into each skillet and let them cook. When they solidified, I sprinkled cheese onto the right half of each
pan and folded the eggs into omelets. While they finished, I put wheat toast down and brewed a pot of coffee. I flipped the omelets, topped each with pico de gallo, poured two coffees, and put everything on the table in short order. Gloria, drawn by the wafting smells, sat at the kitchen table.
“Refresh my memory on this luncheon,” I said when we had both eaten about a quarter of our omelets and consumed some revitalizing coffee.
“The Nightlight Foundation,” she said, “for missing kids and teens.”
“You’re involved with them?”
“I’ve started doing some fundraising for them. This is the first event I’ve organized.” Gloria sipped her coffee and offered a small, tentative smile.
“I wouldn’t miss it, then,” I said, giving her a bigger one in return. “I’m sure it’ll be a hit.” I believed it, too. Gloria, for all her talk about not wanting to work, embraced a role of fundraiser. She’d been something of a socialite before, and while she still could be, her heart was in the right place. She credited me for her change. I, of course, would not dispute it.
“The supportive boyfriend,” she said.
“It’s me.” I supposed I was.
After breakfast, Gloria and I both showered and got dressed. I thought about Ruby and her stalker. Did she work at this hour? Had her pursuer watched her to figure out the pattern of when and where she worked? Hell, did she even have a stalker? Rollins never saw one, and he didn’t miss anything. Ruby thought she did. Maybe she noted different people and overreacted.
Regardless, Gloria and I had a luncheon to attend.
* * *
“How was the hooker?” Gloria asked on the drive over. “Ruby’s her name, right?”
“There are many ways to interpret your first question,” I said.
“I’m hoping there’s only one.”
“She’s . . . I’m not sure. She’s convinced she has a stalker.”
“Does she?”
“Rollins didn’t see one. He referred her to me in the hopes I can figure it out.”
“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“Maybe. She seemed pretty sure of it, but when I asked, I didn’t get the sense she was scared. Most people are frightened of stalkers.”
