Lawrence Block - A Walk Among the Tombstones

“I almost went for a visit once,” I said. “I was in Massillon on business.”

“Massillon! Oh, sure, I used to go there all the time. I knew a ton of people in Massillon.”

“Well, I probably never met any of them,” I said. “What’s the address on Twenty-seventh Street, Pam?”

“One fifty-one.”

“That’s a nice block,” Elaine said.

“Yeah, I like it okay. The only thing, it’s silly, but the neighborhood doesn’t have a name. It’s west of Kips Bay, it’s below Murray Hill, it’s above Gramercy, and of course it’s way east of Chelsea. Some people started calling it Curry Hill, you know, because of all the Indian restaurants.”

“You’re single, Pam?” A nod. “You live alone?”

“Except for my dog. He’s just a little dog but a lot of people won’t break into a place if there’s a dog, no matter what size he is. They’re just scared of dogs, period.”

“Would you like to tell me what happened, Pam?”

“The incident, you mean.”

“Right.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess. That’s what we’re here for, right?”

It was on a summery evening in the middle of the week. She was two blocks from her house, standing on the corner of Park and Twenty-sixth waiting for the light to change, and this truck pulled up and this guy called her over wanting directions to some place, she couldn’t catch the name.

He got out of the truck, explaining that maybe he had the name of the place wrong, that it was on the invoice, and she went around with him to the rear of the truck. He opened the back of the truck, and there was another man inside, and they both had knives. They made her get in the back of the truck with the second man, and the driver got back in the truck and drove off.

At this point I interrupted her, wanting to know why she had been so obliging about getting in the truck. Had there been people around? Had anyone witnessed the abduction?

“I’m a little hazy on the details,” she said.

“That’s all right.”

“It happened so quick.”

Elaine said, “Pam, could I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“You’re in the game, aren’t you, dear?”

I thought, Jesus, how did I miss that?

“I don’t know what you mean,” Pam said.

“You were working that night, weren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

Elaine took the girl’s hand. “It’s all right,” she said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you, nobody’s here to judge you. It’s all right.”

“But how did you—”

“Well, it’s a popular stroll, isn’t it, that stretch of Park Avenue South? But I guess I knew earlier. Honey, I was never on the pavement, but I’ve been in the game myself for almost twenty years.”

“No!”

“Honestly. Right in this apartment, which I bought when it went co-op. I’ve learned to call them clients instead of tricks, and when I’m around squares I sometimes say I’m an art historian, and I’ve been real smart about saving my pennies over the years, but I’m in the life the same as you, dear. So you can tell it to us the way it really happened.”

“God,” she said. “Actually, you know something? It’s a relief. Because I didn’t want to come here and tell you a story, you know? But I didn’t think I had any choice.”

“Because you thought we’d disapprove of you?”

“I guess. And because of what I told the cops.”

“The cops didn’t know you were hooking?” I asked.

“No.”

“They never even brought it up? With the pickup taking place right on the stroll?”

“They were Queens cops,” she said.

“Why would Queens cops catch the case?”

“Because of where I wound up. I was in Elmhurst General Hospital, that’s in Queens, so that’s where the cops were from. What do they know about Park Avenue South?”

“Why did you wind up at Elmhurst General? Never mind, you’ll get to that. Why don’t you start over from the beginning?”

“Sure,” she said.

It was a summery evening in the middle of the week. She was two blocks from her house, standing on the corner of Park and Twenty-sixth waiting for someone to hit on her, and this truck pulled up and a guy motioned for her to come over. She walked around and got in on the passenger side and he drove a block or two and turned on one of the side streets and parked at a hydrant.

She thought it would be a quick blow-job while he sat behind the wheel, twenty or twenty-five for maybe five minutes. The guys in cars almost always wanted head and they wanted to be done right there in their cars. Sometimes they wanted it while the car was moving, which seemed crazy to her, but go figure. The johns who came around on foot would generally spring for a hotel room, and the Elton at Twenty-sixth and Park was reasonable and convenient for that. There was always her apartment, but she almost never took anybody back there unless she was desperate, because she didn’t believe it was safe. Besides, who wanted to trick in the bed you slept in?

She never saw the guy in the back until the truck was parked. Never even knew he was there until his arm came around her neck and his hand clapped over her mouth.

He said, “Surprise, Pammy!”

God, she was scared. She just froze while the driver laughed and reached into her blouse and started feeling her tits. She had big tits and she’d learned to dress to show them on the street, in a halter top or a revealing blouse, because guys who went for tits really went for them, so you might as well show the merchandise. He went right for the nipple and tweaked it and it hurt and she knew these two were going to be rough.

“We’ll all get in back,” the driver said. “More privacy, room to stretch out. We might as well be comfortable, right, Pammy?”

She hated the way they said her name. She had introduced herself as Pam, not Pammy, and they said it in a mocking way, a very nasty way.

When the guy in back let go of her mouth she said, “Look, nothing rough, huh? Whatever you want, and I’ll give you a real good time, but no rough stuff, okay?”

“You on drugs, Pammy?”

She said no, because she wasn’t. She didn’t care for drugs much. She would smoke a joint if somebody handed it to her, and coke was nice but she never yet actually bought any. Sometimes guys would lay out lines for her, and they got insulted if you weren’t interested, and anyway she liked it well enough. Maybe they thought it got her hot, made her more into it, like sometimes you would get a guy who would put a dab of coke on his dick, like that would be such a treat for you when you went down on him that he’d get extra good head on account of it.

“You a junkie, Pammy? Where do you fix, up your nose? Between your toes? You know any big drug dealers? You got a boyfriend deals junk, maybe?”

Really stupid questions. Like there was no purpose to them, like they more or less got off on asking the questions. The one did, anyway. The driver. He was the one all hipped on the subject of drugs. The other one was more into calling her names. “You dirty cunt, you fucking piece-of-shit bitch,” like that. Sickening if you let it get to you but actually a lot of guys were like that, especially when they got excited. One guy, she must have done him four, five times, always in his car, and he was always very polite before and after, very considerate, never rough, but it was always the same story when she was copping his joint and he was getting close to getting off. “Oh, you cunt, you cunt, I wish you were dead. Oh, I wish you would die, I wish you were dead, you fucking cunt.” Horrible, just horrible, but except for that he was a perfect gentleman and he paid fifty dollars each time and never took long to come, so what was the big deal if he had a nasty mouth? Sticks and stones, right?