Frank Zafiro - Some Degree of Murder

“Well, Axel, I want you to be my driver next time. If I ask for you by name, they’ll send you, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks,” I said and climbed out of the cab.

Axel radioed in to his dispatcher before pulling out of the parking lot. Across the street, a dark green Saturn pulled into a parking lot near the hooker. She walked over to the passenger window and talked to the driver for a moment before she climbed in. The car sped away from the area.

The black dude that followed her on my side of the street continued towards me. His stroll was vintage pimp and his eyes scanned the neighborhood. When he looked at me, I stared back. He stopped for a moment before strutting into a bar called The Hole.

I walked half a block and followed him into the bar.

The bar was dark and dingy. A dented brass rail ran the length of the counter behind which a fat, greasy man poured drinks. My reflection shone back at me in the large mirror that hung behind the bottles of booze. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found the pimp sitting in a back booth.

I wandered over to him and waited patiently while he finished talking to a little Asian whore who knelt by his side. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.

“Now, get out there and earn me some bank,” he cooed to the girl.

“Okay, Rolo,” she said and stood up. “You waiting for me?” she asked me with a smile that revealed a tooth missing on the left side of her mouth.

I shook my head and motioned towards the big man.

The girl looked back down at Rolo who nodded back. “It’s alright.”

When the girl was gone, he turned his attention to me. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“What the fuck you want?”

“Answers.”

His tongue darted over his lips. “About what?”

“About the business.”

A smile spread across his face. “You wanna start pimpin’?”

I sat across from him.

“I didn’t say you could sit down.”

“I didn’t ask.”

The smile turned into a snarl. “Be careful who you play hard with.”

I leaned in. “I am.”

Rolo smiled again and leaned slowly back in the booth. He put his hands behind his head. “What do you wanna know?”

“Who runs prostitution in this town?”

The smile faded from Rolo’s face. “You’re a cop.”

“I already told you no.”

“You tryin’ to move in on my territory then?” Anger flashed in his eyes and his nostrils flared.

“I’m trying to figure out who a girl was working for.”

“Why?”

From the inside of my jacket, I pulled out Fawn’s picture and slid it across the table to Rolo. “Because someone killed her.”

“She’s a young one. Looks like a debutante.”

“Were you running her?”

“If I was I wouldn’t tell you,” his eyes flashed up to me. “But she wasn’t in my stable and that’s the truth. But she looks familiar. I might have seen her once or twice before.”

I swirled my finger in the air. “Is this area yours?”

“It is now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, ever since them racist motherfuckers decided to take a cut of the prostitution action.”

“Who?”

“The B.S.C. The Brotherhood of the Southern Cross.”

“They're a motorcycle gang. They don’t mess around with prostitution. Drugs, yeah, but not whores.”

“It’s part of the new world order, baby. Times are tough so the sharks are starting to eat the other sharks. They started pushing me out about a year and a half ago. They control all of the working girls from Altamont to downtown. I got the shit east of Altamont. Some other nigger is controlling the tail in downtown.”

I nodded in understanding. That’s what bugged me about the area around the Brotherhood’s club house. There were no pimps on the street. There were hookers and dealers but no pimps.

“Who’s controlling the drug trade?”

“The Brotherhood. Ain’t no shit movin’ or happenin’ in their block unless they get a piece of it. They put a couple girls in the hospital who tried to say no to their protection.” He made air quotes with his fingers when he said ‘protection.’

“They rough up the girls?”

He nodded. “Stupid cracker motherfuckers. When they gonna understand that if you damage the merchandise they can’t produce?”

“Why do the girls stay in the area then? Why not move out here to you or downtown?”

“That section of east Sprague is hot. That’s where the action has been for the past five or so years. Plus, the Brotherhood is hooking them up with cheap dope.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever the girls want. Smack, crack or crank. They got their fingers in all of the pies.”

I tapped the picture of Fawn before scooping it up. “I want you to ask around about this girl. Find out which one of the Brotherhood was running her.”

“And just why in the fuck should I do that for you?”

“Because I’ll remove your competition if you do.”

Rolo slowly moved his jaw as he thought. “How will I get in contact with you?”

“Give me your cell number and I’ll check in with you.”

Rolo stared at me for a moment and noisily sucked air through his teeth. “Alright,” he said and rattled off seven digits. I repeated the numbers to myself several times before I had it memorized.

I stood up from the booth to leave.

“I seen your type come down after these girls before.”

“My type?”

“Yeah. A daddy trying to bring his little girl home. They never go home.” His eyes didn’t brag. “I’m sorry what happened to your girl. Nobody deserves that shit.”

I stuck out my hand and he shook it. “I’ll be in touch.”

TOWER

The sound of music and the smell of smoke blasted into me as soon as I opened the door to the Tip Top. The speakers were tinny and struggled to pump out Joan Jett’s I Love Rock ‘n Roll . As I walked down the short corridor to the seating area, none of the six pairs of eyes seated there took the time to look over. All were glued to the small stage at the front of the large room.

I glanced up to the stage. The woman dancing there was pushing forty. Loose skin adorned her belly and the backs of her arms, but her legs were surprisingly supple. She noticed me and flashed a confident grin as she gyrated her hips to the beat. I gave her what I hoped was a professional nod.

Several patrons noticed her gaze and a few of them started eyeballing me. I’m sure they made me as a cop right away.

I ignored their attention and most turned back to the spectacle on stage as I walked toward the bar. Out of habit, I moved to the end of the counter. Bartenders guard the turf behind the bar fiercely, but George didn’t react when I slid around the corner and stood behind it and looked out over the room. The patrons seemed to have forgotten me, except for the guy with a ponytail and three days of beard in the corner. He pulled down his John Deere hat and slumped in chair, rolling up his shoulders and turning his face away from me.

Odds were, that guy had an arrest warrant.

Two stools down, a dancer sat sipping a glass of water through a small red straw. She was slender, with her black hair cut in a short bob. A deep scar ran from beneath her left eye and arced across her lips to her chin. She looked me over, and then noticed me staring at her. She flashed a weak smile and looked back down at her glass.

George finished serving a guy at the other end of the bar and took the long walk down to my end. His large frame reminded me of a Middle Ages innkeeper. His face was more worn and haggard than I remembered, but it had been a while.

“Officer, how’s it going?”