very adequate living whereby school was irrelevant. She could make more money on her back than she ever could as a nine-to-five secretary. And she could start right then at age sixteen. Added boon: She would get out of that wretched house with its perpetual state of war. And where, as the years ripened her, her ox of a father had begun to ogle her.
It hadn’t worked out as well as she had anticipated. Oh, the pimps weren’t so bad. She was luckier than many of the girls in that she had never had a pimp who deserted, or worse, beat her. Nevertheless, for years now she had been pimpless—in the language of her profession, an outlaw. In fact, she had become adviser and confidante to many of the women, particularly younger ones.
But like almost all the other women, particularly those on the street, she could do little or nothing about the four plagues that afflicted today’s hookers: certain cops, jail, society, and sorry-ass tricks.
Mostly the tricks. Who could depend on a John?
Massage parlors were worse than the streets. In the parlors, the girls had to service whoever came in, with little or no chance to veto anybody whose money the boss had taken. It was better on the streets, but just barely. A girl could turn down anyone she chose to, whether he approached her on the sidewalk or in a car. But the inclination was to accept anybody’s money. After all, that’s why they were out there. However, too often, indiscriminate acceptance led to a lot of abuse, verbal as well as physical. And murder was all too common.
There were few defenses. Experience, added to some well-honed intuition, was the main protection. But that took time. And while one was gaining that experience, one made mistakes. One hoped none would be fatal.
Another defense was the buddy system. Working in pairs or in groups of three or more, they demonstrated that there could be safety in numbers. Louise recalled a time when she was just getting started on Eighth Avenue in New York City. She was propositioned by a sailor. Before she could accept, an older woman advised against it. She was right: The sailor turned out to be a cop in disguise. Sailors don’t offer to bring you to their apartments, the woman told Louise. Sailors live on their ships. Besides, there was just something about that guy . . .
Experience.
Another benefit of having a buddy was being able to check on one another. When one entered a car, the buddy could take down the license number and note the time. If too much time went by, the buddy could begin checking likely places where they might have gone. In a genuine emergency, at least the buddy would have a license number.
Thinking of buddies, Louise began looking for Arlene. Louise was now at the corner of Third and Willis, but no Arlene. Well, that happened.
El would have to depend even more on her intuition and experience, as she had earlier with the kid. There had been something about his immediate reaction to her. And he hadn’t bargained. She had itemized what he could choose from and what each service cost. She perceived he was only waiting for her to mention the ten-dollar service. That’s all he had and he was going to spend it all.
He had been unaware that he was expected to pay in advance—indicating this probably was his first time. And his politeness had reinforced that hypothesis.
Once they got to the small apartment she rented for assignations, his ineptness had further betrayed him. To mix a metaphor, this was his maiden voyage. And Louise had foreseen the entire scenario from the first few words they had exchanged.
So her intuition was running well today. She’d go on playing her luck whether or not Arlene got back before Louise got another customer.
She hunched and shivered. This frigid, damp gale cut right through one. The only silver lining Louise could think of was that bundling up hid the telltale signs of age. In the summer it was easy to see she was far from young. On the other hand, Johns who cruised streets such as Cass, Second, and Third had no reason to expect Miss America.
This was the third time that particular black ’86 Escort had passed by.
It wasn’t that difficult to note; late Sunday afternoon there wasn’t much traffic. Was the Super Bowl on TV this afternoon?
She didn’t pay much attention to football. Only as it affected trade. The crazy thing was on sometime in January, that much she knew. (Actually, it would not be played till next Sunday.) In any case, whether it was football or the lousy weather, there wasn’t much traffic. It was easy, especially with her experience, to spot the Escort.
On each pass, the guy had eyed her very carefully. Again, she was grateful she was all bundled up. Whoever the guy was, he wasn’t going to get much of a look at her unless he put his money where his eyes were.
She was right. On the fourth pass, the Escort pulled to the curb directly in front of her. The driver lowered the window on the passenger side. She approached the car. “Want to party?” It wasn’t much of an invitation, but it did have antiquity going for it.
“I guess so. Are you available?”
“Sure thing, honey. I’d almost pay you just to get out of this cold. Almost!” She emphasized the word, indicating it was only an attempt at humor.
She got in the car and gave directions to her apartment. Directions were followed by an itemized listing of services. “. . . Well, honey, what’s your pleasure?”
He was silent. She studied him. One couldn’t be too careful.
There was nothing about him to cause anxiety in the casual observer. He was wearing a black coat, hat, trousers, shoes, and gloves.
So he liked black. Not particularly unusual. Lots of people favor dark colors in the winter. Dark doesn’t show slush marks as such. Dark helps trap and retain the heat of what little sun there might be.
She got a strong and unmistakable tobacco odor. He wasn’t smoking just now, but he had to be a heavy cigarette smoker. And booze—there was the distinct smell of alcohol, though he did not appear to be drunk. He was wearing gloves, but she would bet her last buck that the index and middle fingers of one or both hands bore the telltale yellow nicotine stains.
Half-turned in the passenger seat, she had a clear view of his profile. He looked to be younger than she. But not by much. Maybe in his late forties. He was clean-shaven and, judging from what little hair she could see below his hat, he was either blond or gray-haired.
“I don’t know,” he answered at length, “I kind of thought of spending about twenty-five dollars.”
“Sounds fine to me, honey.” Most Johns specified just what land of action they wanted. Some, as this one, settled on the amount of money they were willing to invest. Nothing very unusual in that. And twenty-five dollars probably represented the amount he’d been able to squirrel away from his wife. “But I’ve got to have it up front.”
“Huh?”
“I need it now.”
“Oh, okay . . . sure.” He had stopped at the light on the corner of Third and Selden. They were but two blocks from the apartment. He would turn left and they would be there. He opened his coat and reached into his breast pocket for his wallet. For a brief moment, his coat was open at the throat.
Louise gasped.
He took a twenty-dollar and a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and handed them to her. As he did, he noticed that she was staring at his collar. He smiled. “Something wrong?”
“You a preacher?”
“You might say so. That a problem?”
“Well, I’ll say this for you: You don’t try to hide it.”
“Why should I?”
“I dunno. Most guys at least try some kind of masquerade. They claim they’re single . . . but they’re wearing a wedding ring. Or they’re married but the wife won’t give them any. There’ve been some I knew were preachers, though they wouldn’t let on. But you—”
“My money not good enough for you?”
“No, no! It’s just that . . . what kind of preacher are you, anyway?”
“Huh?”
“I mean . . . Baptist or what?”
“What do you think?”
