George Pelecanos: Hell To Pay

“You’ve done some of that,” said Bagley.

“Sure, but I prefer working in the fresh air to working behind a computer, understand what I’m saying? I just like to be out there. And my business is a neighborhood business. Over twenty-five years now in the same spot. So it’s good for me to have a presence out there, the way-”

“Cops do,” said Tracy.

“Yeah. I’m an ex-cop, like you two. Been thirty-some-odd years since I wore the uniform, though.”

“No such thing as an ex-cop,” said Bagley.

“Like there’s no such thing as a former alcoholic,” said Tracy, “or an ex-Marine.”

“You got that right,” said Strange. He liked these two women a touch more now than when he’d walked in.

Strange turned the glass of ginger ale so that the smudge was away from him and took a sip. He replaced the glass on the table and leaned forward. “All right, then, now we had our first kiss and got that over with. What do you young ladies have on your minds?”

Bagley glanced briefly over at Tracy, who was in the process of putting fire to a cigarette.

“We’ve been working with a group called APIP,” said Bagley. “Do you know it?”

“I read about it in that article they did on you two. Something about helping out prostitutes, right?”

“Aiding Prostitutes in Peril,” said Tracy, blowing a jet of smoke across the table at Strange.

“Some punk-rock kids started it, right?”

“The people behind it were a part of the local punk movement twenty years ago,” said Tracy, “as I was. They’re not kids anymore. They’re older than me and Karen.”

“What do they do, exactly?”

“A number of things, from simply providing condoms to reporting violent johns. Also, they serve as an information clearinghouse. They have an eight-hundred number and a Web site that takes in e-mails from parents and prostitutes alike.”

“That’s where you two come in. You find runaways who’re hookin’. Right?”

“That’s a part of what we do,” said Bagley. “And we’re getting too busy to handle all the work ourselves. The county business alone keeps us up to our ears in it. We could use a little help in the District.”

“You need me to find a girl.”

“Not exactly,” said Bagley. “We thought we’d test the waters with you on something simpler, see if you’re interested.”

“Keep talking.”

“There’s a girl who works the street between L and Mass, on Seventh,” said Tracy.

“Down there by the site for the new convention center,” said Strange.

“Right,” said Tracy. “The last two weeks or so a guy’s been hassling her. Pulling up in his car, trying to get her to date him.”

“Ain’t that the object of the game?”

“Sure,” said Bagley. “But there’s something off about this guy. He’s been asking her, Do you like it rough? Telling her she’s gonna dig it, he can tell she’s gonna dig it, right?”

Strange shifted in his seat. “So? Girl doesn’t have to be a working girl to come up against that kind of creep. She can hear it in a bar.”

“These working women get a sense for this kind of thing,” said Bagley. “She says there’s something not right, we got to believe her. And he doesn’t want to pay. Says he doesn’t have to pay, understand? She’s scared. Can’t go to the cops, right? And her pimp would beat her ass blue if he knew she was turning down a trick.”

“Even a no-money trick?”

Strange stared hard at Tracy. Her eyes did not move away from his.

Tracy said, “This is the information we have. Either you’re interested or you’re not.”

“I hear you,” said Strange, “but I’m not sure what you want me to do. You’re lookin’ for me to shake some cat down, you got the wrong guy.”

“You own a camera, right?” said Tracy.

“Still and video alike,” said Strange.

“Get some shots for us,” said Bagley, “or a tape. We’ll run the plates and contact this gentleman ourselves. Trust me, we can be pretty convincing. This guy’s probably got a wife. Even better, he has kids. We’ll make sure he never hassles this girl again.”

“Damn,” said Strange with a low chuckle, “you ladies are serious .”

The waitress came to the table and set Strange’s burger down before him. He thanked her, cut into it, and inspected the center. He took a large bite and closed his eyes as he chewed.

“They cooked it the way I asked,” said Strange, after he had swallowed. “I’ll say that for them.”

“The burgers here are tight,” said Bagley, smiling just a little for the first time.

Strange wiped some juice off his lips. “I get thirty-five an hour, by the way.”

Tracy dragged on her smoke, this time blowing the exhale away from Strange. “According to our attorney friend, he remembers paying you thirty.”

“He remembers, huh?” said Strange. “Well, I can remember when movies were fifty cents, too.”

“You can?” said Tracy.

“I’m old,” said Strange with a shrug.

“Not too old,” said Bagley.

“Thank you,” said Strange.

“You’ll do it, then,” said Tracy.

“I assume she works nights.”

“Every night this week,” said Tracy.

“I coach a kids’ football team early in the evenings.”

“She’ll be out there, like, ten to twelve,” said Tracy. “Black, mid-twenties, with a face on the worn side. She’ll be wearing a red leather skirt tonight.”

“She say what kind of car this guy drives?”

“Black sedan,” said Bagley. “Late-model Chevy.”

“Caprice, somethin’ like that?”

“Late-model Chevy is what she said.” Tracy stubbed out her cigarette. “Here’s something else for you to look at.” She reached into the leather case on the floor at her feet and pulled out a yellow-gold sheet of paper. She pushed it across the table to Strange.

The headline across the top of the flyer read, IN PERIL. Below the head was a photo of a young white girl, unclear from generations of copying. The girl’s arms were skinny and her hands were folded in front of her, a yearbook-style photo. She was smiling, showing braces on her teeth. He read her name and her statistics, printed below the photograph, noticing from the DOB that she was fourteen years old.

“We’ll talk about that some other time,” said Bagley, “you want to. Just wanted you to get an idea of what we do.”

Strange nodded, folded the flyer neatly, and put it in the back pocket of his jeans. Then he focused on finishing his lunch. Bagley and Tracy drank their beers and let him do it.

When he was done, he signaled the waitress. “I see on the specials board you got a steak today.”

“You’re still hungry?”

“Uh-uh, baby, I’m satisfied. But I was wondering, you guys got any bones back there in the kitchen?”

“I suppose we do.”

“Wrap up a few for me, will you?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The waitress drifted. Strange said to the women, “I got a dog at home, a boxer, goes by the name of Greco. Got to take care of him, too.”

Later, Bagley and Tracy watched Strange exit the dining room, his paper bag of steak bones in hand. Bagley studied his squared-up walk, the way his muscled shoulders filled out the back of his shirt, the gray salted nicely into his close-cropped hair.

“How old you figure he is?” said Bagley.

“Early fifties,” said Tracy. “I liked him.”

“I liked him, too.”

“I noticed,” said Tracy.

“Like to see a man who enjoys his food, is all it is,” said Bagley. “Think we should’ve told him more?”

“He knew there was more. He wanted to find out what it was for himself.”

“The curious type.”