Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

“I’m working a job,” I said.

This time he gave my card a harder look. “Hell of a job. You getting paid for this?”

“I’m trying to track down Angel Ramos.”

The problem with a good poker face is that it sometimes gives away the very fact that you’re trying not to give anything away. The captain gave me an absurdly neutral stare for a good five or six seconds before he said, “Who?”

“Angel Ramos. He runs an ice-cream shop over on Viceroy Street. Gives it away to the kids for free. Coaches Little League in the summers. Tutors math in his spare time. I believe he’s also president of the Rotary Club. No. Wait. I’m sorry. Angel Ramos ? He pimps, pushes drugs, runs guns, beats up people and steals things. My mistake. Ever heard of him?”

I was glad the old guy out front wasn’t here to see me getting uppity all over again. His boss didn’t look too happy to see it, either. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about I need to find Angel Ramos. I understand he dabbles heavily in the flesh trade, among his other hobbies. I thought I might start by asking the girls on the street. Some girls like to talk, if you handle them right.”

“What do you want with Ramos?”

“That’s confidential information, Captain.”

He replanted his feet. “We don’t have a prostitution problem in Fort Pete, Mr. Malone.”

“There are hookers five blocks from the White House, Captain. I’m not smearing your precinct, it’s part of the landscape. I just want to know where the girls are.” I took my card from him and jotted a phone number on the back of it. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s Police Commissioner Carroll’s home phone number. I’m on special assignment. Call him. He’ll tell you whether to chat with me or throw me out on my can.”

“Wait here.”

I waited. Three minutes later, he came back.

I asked, “Did you reach him?”

“I got him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to tell you where the whores are.”

“Okay, Captain. I’m all ears.”

CAPTAIN KERSAUSON CERTAINLY KNEW HIS PRECINCT. NOT EIGHT blocks south of the police station stood the large brick building that Victor Ramos had mentioned. Like he said, it took up the entire block. Its black silhouette made it look as if a piece of the sky had been carved away. A sign out front said: THE NIAGARA COMPANY. It was an industrial concern that took in and laundered towels and sheets and linen tablecloths, from hotels and restaurants in Brooklyn and Queens and from across the river in Manhattan. At the far end of the block was a half-acre parking area separated from the street by a metal fence that stood about twelve feet high. Several dozen vans with the Niagara logo were parked in the lot. According to Captain Kersauson, it was a little bit like a shell game, trying to guess which of the vans was serving as port of call at any one time for the local prostitutes and their customers. Technically speaking, the fenced-in parking area was locked up tight, as were the vans. There was even an unarmed guard posted on the north end of the lot, in a little shack about the size of a drive-through photo place. According to Kersauson, the local flesh peddlers paid the guard not to look south.

I drove slowly down Brockton Street, along the fenced-in parking area, and pulled over to the curb at the end of the block and turned off my headlights. Across the street were several abandoned buildings with boarded-up fronts, interspersed with darkened brownstones. Scanning the block for signs of life, I didn’t even see the woman approaching the car from the passenger side. At the tap-tap of her fingernails against the window, I started for my gun. I found the window switch instead and lowered the passenger window partway. She was a young black woman. Her hair was long and paper-flat, glistening in the minimal ambient light.

“You looking for a date?”

“I might be,” I said.

“Might be shit. You out of gas or you looking for a date? What’s your name?”

“My name’s Fritz.”

“Right. My name’s Brittany. It’s cold out here, Fritz. Why don’t you let me in?”

“Door’s open.”

She tugged on the handle and let herself in. She brought with her a slight scent of cinnamon. She was wearing a tight denim blouse and a short red skirt. Not exactly winter wear. She ran her hands up and down her skinny arms. “It’s cold,” she said, giving a dramatic shudder.

“You ought to be wearing a coat,” I said.

She turned a sneer to me. I’m sure it was supposed to be a smile. “Coat don’t show me off,” she said. “You want to look?” Before I could say no, she tugged at her blouse the way Clark Kent tugs at his shirt when he’s about to go save the world. She flashed her breasts, then as swiftly covered them up again. “That’s your free sample. You want to go someplace warm and see some more?”

“Have you got any friends?” I asked.

She made a face. “You don’t want me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She gave me a queer look. “What? You want two girls?” Then she laughed, showing me a cracked tooth. “You got the stuff for two girls?”

“I’ve got the money,” I said.

“We ain’t talked money yet.”

“How much for three?”

“Brittany” fell against the door as if she’d been shot. Her body shook with laughter. “ Three ? God damn, you’re an animal . What you gonna do with three girls? Don’t you go telling me you’re Mr. Super Stud.”

“I like an audience,” I said.

“I get it. That’s cool. We got a special kinky rate. Three hundred dollars.”

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?”

“One hundred.”

“For three girls?”

“It’s a cold night, Brittany. I don’t exactly see the cars lining up.”

“One-fifty.”

“Okay.”

“Show me the money.”

I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket.

She seemed satisfied. “Okay. I’m getting out of the car. Drive around the corner. Halfway down’s a streetlight that’s out. There’s a Dumpster. Stop there.”

She got out of the car and crossed into one of the boarded-up buildings. I followed her instructions. A part of me wanted to just step on the gas and keep going. I was making this up as I went along. My thinking was that I probably had only one crack at trying to get information; why not gather together as many potential informants as I could? I hadn’t been waiting two minutes at the broken streetlight when the passenger door opened and a lithe black man slipped into the car, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Give me the money.”

I asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m the man with the girls.”

“I don’t see any girls.”

“I got ’em.”

“You’ve got three of them?”

“You’re a hungry motherfucker, aren’t you?”

I asked, “Is Donna one of the girls?”

“What are you talking about, Donna?”

“Donna Bia. I was told Donna Bia is worth three of anyone else. You say you’re the man, so I thought I’d ask.”

“I ain’t got no fucking Donna for you, punk. This ain’t fucking pick-and-choose. You want these three or you want to get the hell gone? Two hundred dollars.”

“Brittany said one-fifty.”

“Well, fuck Brittany. It’s called inflation. Two hundred.” I gave him the money. He stuffed it into his pocket. “Flash your lights.”

I did. A few seconds later, I could make out three figures crossing the street. One of them pulled back a piece of the fence and let the others inside, then followed. They moved to one of the vans, opened the back door and disappeared inside.

“Showtime,” said the man next to me. “What you do is you don’t leave a mark on them, you got that? You hurt my girls, I hurt you. That’s the only rule. Otherwise, enjoy.”