David Jackson - Pariah

The daylight hours are not the best time to find a hooker on the streets of Manhattan. Gone are the days when it was impossible to stroll around the Times Square area without being propositioned by females, males and various combinations thereof. You want some pussy now, then check out the classifieds at the back of the free sheets or call up an escort agency or use the Internet. If you’re really set on doing things the old-fashioned way you can still find company on the streets, but only if you look hard, and almost always after dark.

It takes a lot of legwork before the detectives strike lucky. As they approach a massage parlor on First Avenue, a tall Latino girl with startling red streaks in her otherwise raven hair comes click-clacking out of the front door.

‘Hey, Floella!’ says Doyle. ‘You working indoors these days?’

Floella Cruz chews her gum and blinks at each of the cops in turn, her expression both puzzled and wary.

‘When I can get it. They were short-staffed in there.’

‘Many hands make light work,’ says Alvarez.

‘You should try it,’ she answers, glancing down at his groin. ‘Take some of that stiffness out of your posture.’

Doyle knows that most prostitutes would prefer to work inside where it’s safer and warmer, but that for many it’s not an option, especially for the crack addicts who find it almost impossible to handle fixed hours.

‘And when you’re not here?’ he asks.

‘I’m in my Trump Tower apartment, checking my share prices. Come on, fellas, what’s this about?’

When Doyle produces the photograph and holds it in front of her face, Floella nearly falls off her heels. As she steps back, her short leather jacket opens up and her large pale breasts almost leap for freedom from the dayglo-pink bra.

‘Fuck!’ she cries. ‘Is that Scarlett? Fuck! What happened to her? Is she dead?’

‘She’s dead,’ Alvarez confirms. ‘You know this girl?’

‘Not real well. Scarlett is all I got for a name. Girl’s only nineteen. Shit, what’s the world coming to when a girl’s got to start turning tricks at nineteen?’

‘How’d you know her?’

‘Just from seeing her on the streets. Girl’s pretty new around here. I gave her some of the benefits of my extensive experience.’

‘When’d you last see her?’

‘About three, four nights ago.’

‘Where?’

‘Eleventh, Twelfth Street. Somewhere around there.’

‘She tell you anything about any of her johns?’

Floella puts a finger to her temple as she thinks. A theatrical pose. Her jacket swings open again, affording the detectives another view of her plump assets.

‘Nobody in particular,’ she says finally. ‘I mean, we talked about some of the crazy shit we get from time to time.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like this one guy she had, liked her to lick his bald head while they fucked. And then this black motherfucker, wanted Scarlett to put a cork up his ass and take it out with a corkscrew. .’

‘Okay, okay,’ Alvarez says. ‘But she didn’t mention any real psychos? Nobody she thought would try to hurt her?’

‘No.’

‘What about cops?’ Doyle asks, and he catches the sidelong glance from Alvarez. ‘She go with any cops?’

Floella smiles and jiggles her breasts in invitation. ‘Honey, do cops do that sort of thing? I mean, aren’t you highly trained to keep your weapons holstered and out of sight at all times?’

Doyle sighs and Alvarez says, ‘Speaking of which, do you have a carry permit for those?’

As Floella laughs and turns toward Alvarez, Doyle feels a surge of irritation.

‘Who’s the pimp?’ he demands. Again he picks up on a glance from Alvarez, which tells him that the note of anger in his voice has not been missed.

‘I. . I dunno,’ Floella says, and it’s clear that she too has detected the change in the air.

‘Floella, I’m gonna ask you one more time, and I don’t want to have to come looking for you again. We’re working a double homicide. Your girlfriend here was beaten until the snot flew out of her ears, and then she had three bullets put in her head. The other victim is a cop. My partner, in fact. So you can guess how I’m feeling about that right now. I’ll ask you again: who’s the pimp?’

‘Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me. Tremaine Cavell. Most know him as TC.’

‘Where can we find him?’

‘Prob’ly hanging with his boys. He owns an auto repair place on Houston. The Pit Stop.’

Doyle pulls a card from his pocket. ‘Thanks. You think of anything else, give us a call. Oh, and put those away before you get frostbite.’

They are walking away when Floella says, ‘She counted. Only other thing I know about her. She counted a lot.’

‘Yeah,’ Doyle says. ‘She still counts with us too.’

At the Pit Stop, a group of young black men is gathered around a brand new silver Mercedes SL convertible, red leather interior. One of the men is doing all the talking, showing off his new acquisition. Despite the cold, he wears a tight black sleeveless T, emphasizing his muscular arms and chest. Around one wrist is a gold Rolex; heavy gold chains are on the other wrist and around his neck. His hair is braided in cornrows. His face is boyish, the only thing putting any menace on it being a small moon-shaped scar high on his cheek.

As Doyle and Alvarez walk in off the street, the gang descends into silence and focuses its energy in a collective stony glare.

‘Tremaine Cavell?’ Doyle asks the apparent leader.

The man chin-points at Doyle. ‘Who you?’

Doyle flips open his wallet, flashes his own gold. ‘Detectives Doyle and Alvarez.’

Cavell looks to his boys, a hint of amusement on his lips. He gets a rumble of laughter in return.

‘Yeah, thass me,’ he says. ‘Friends call me TC.’

Doyle turns to Alvarez. ‘Close friends get to call him TC.’

Alvarez smiles. ‘The indisputable leader of the gang.’

Doyle points to a short, rotund man in blue mechanic’s overalls. ‘That Benny the Ball?’

‘Yeah, and you Officer Dibble,’ Cavell says. ‘Now what you want?’

‘Information. On one of your girls.’

Cavell puffs out his already-substantial pectorals. ‘I got more honeys than Winnie the fuckin’ Pooh, man. You gonna have to get more, like, specific.’

‘I’m talking about the girls who turn tricks for you, Tremaine.’

Cavell puts a finger to his neck chain. ‘Me? Running hookers? Nah, man, I don’t do that shit. Who gave you that?’

‘All right, Tremaine. This ain’t a vice bust. I just want to know about one girl. Blond, age nineteen. Goes by the name Scarlett.’

Cavell folds his arms. ‘Never hearda her.’

Doyle surveys the faces of the other young men in the garage. Their faces, like their souls, are hard. He wishes that, just for once, people in this city would be a little more cooperative.

He drops his gaze to the Mercedes. ‘Nice ride.’

There is a sudden softening in Cavell. He lowers his arms, becomes more animated.

‘You like that, huh? It got DVD, multi-CD, GPS. Shit, it even got a Playstation in the back. .’

Doyle sits down on the vehicle’s hood. He doesn’t do it lightly, but throws his whole weight on there.

‘Whoa!’ Cavell shouts.

Doyle bounces heavily up and down a few times. ‘Good suspension too,’ he says. He is aware of the consternation among Cavell’s boys, but he knows that Alvarez has his back.

Doyle points to his left foot. ‘Will you look at that? Damn shoelace coming untied again.’ He lifts his foot, plants the heel securely on the fender.

‘Oh, man. .’ Cavell says, raising his arms to the sky.

As Doyle reties his lace, he pretends to peer at something on the spotless hood. ‘I think you got some dirt on here, Tremaine. Some tar or something, man.’