get a lot of that. It was all over the news. I was working that night, saw them pull her out, even got myself on the eleven o’clock news.”
“What?” I said in total confusion.
“That little colored girl that got raped and murdered in the men’s room, it was right over there. That boy did it while his friend watched or some shit.” The story came back to me, it had been all over the airwaves a few years back. A little girl of six or seven had been raped and strangled by this nice looking freak in his early twenties, his pal had seen him starting to do it and had walked out, didn’t try to stop him. Her mom was right outside in the restaurant the whole time, not fifty feet from where her daughter was being dragged through hell. I wonder if that woman ever got another peaceful moment’s rest; what does she see when she closes her eyes at night? The kid who did it, he was broken beyond repair long before he dragged that scared little girl in there. I know what they do to short eyes in the slam, so he is getting his daily, but the fuck who really needs to be taken off the count is the punk who saw it start and walked away. In my book that’s the worst of all, because at some level he knew better and wasn’t man enough to act.
I shoved my change into my pocket and cranked the beast over. I made a friend a promise and gambling wasn’t part of the deal, so I pulled past the casino and onto the highway, dodging that bullet one more time. At Sin City I took a left onto highway ninety-five. The Cock’s Roost was sixty miles from Vegas, just outside the Clark County line. Back in the sixties when prostitution was made legal the mob boys and the state struck a deal to keep it out of the gambling capitals of Vegas and Reno. The sex trade is small potatoes compared to the real cash cow, the twenty-four-hour hum of slot machines. The gaming business, with its stage shows and roller coasters was after all good clean all-American fun. The smaller counties were free to license brothels, it helped their tax base and hurt no one. They had strict health codes and the girl’s safety was protected. In a world that always had and always would have hookers, it seemed sane to regulate it. Not that anyone ever asked my opinion. The same hypocrites who screamed to outlaw all “deviant” sex acts were no doubt banging their interns behind closed doors. Power attracts creeps, that’s just the fact of the world.
It was about ten thirty when I started to see signs with a cartoon rooster and hens inviting me to stop on by for a good time. Pulling down the long driveway I discovered the Cock’s Roost, a squat, spread out complex of interconnected single story houses. The slapped together additions looked like sorry afterthoughts. An eight-foot cyclone fence surrounded the property. The fence was to keep the girls in. The way the rules worked is that while the girls were employed, they couldn’t leave the compound, they didn’t want them going to town and freelancing. The large gravel parking lot was only a quarter full. I parked the Crown Vic and slipped the.38 into a boot holster. At a gas station along the road I’d changed into my suit. Pulling up my bolo tie, I rang the bell. The gate opened with an electronic click and I walked the thirty feet up the path to the door where I was greeted by the floor manager, a professional looking older woman who piled her gray hair on top of her head in a tight bun. She smiled pleasantly and invited me in.
Twenty-five girls stood in a line waiting for my approval. They were all dressed in skimpy outfits, from lace baby doll nightgowns to short shorts with bikini tops. They each held out a hand and demurely said her name. “Lacy,” “Shayla,” “Daisy,” “Mercedes,” “Bianca,” “Trinity,” “Pleasure,” “Sunset,” “Savanna,” “Dallas,” “Phoenix,” “Cherri,” “Shanda,” “Jessie,” “Ginger,” “Kiki,” and “CoCo”. Their names like their breasts and their lusty smiles were all counterfeit. Not that most men would care, not as long as they knew how to make him come, which, by the way, ain’t really rocket science. All the dancers I knew had two fake names, a stage name and one to tell a big spender so he could feel like he really knew her.
At the end of the line of names I would never remember, the floor manager asked me to make my choice. It was all so cold and businesslike, devoid of any of the romance one might expect in a whorehouse. No old black man playing piano, no men playing cards and laughing with the girls. This was a place you bought sex clean and cold. I acted nervous, said maybe I needed a drink first. I moved to the small bar and the line broke up. The girls lounged around the lobby, some trying to catch my eye. Others wrote me off and sat chatting with their girlfriends. I ordered a rum and coke, sipping it while several young lovelies came by to see if I wanted a party. I told them maybe later and they drifted off. “Party,” that’s their classy way of saying “fuck,” it made it sound so clean and fun. “I would like an oral party followed by a you-peeing-in-my-mouth party?” Oh yeah that sounds so much better. Jessie, a woman about my age sauntered up and leaned against the bar, resting her thigh against my leg.
“First time?” she asked.
“Yes… truth is I’m looking for a friend of mine.” I casually set a hundred dollar bill on the bar. “Her name is Cass.” Jessie looked at the hundred then up at me. Her eyes flitted to the floor manager who was watching me like a hawk.
“Why don’t we go back to my room and have a party?” Jessie said, “I think I know just what you need.”
Her room was small, enough space for a bed, dresser, and a small writing table. She had a bathroom that she shared with the girl next door. Through the walls came the squeak of bedsprings and a man moaning. “Now, what kind of party would you like?” Jessie said, pointing to a small microphone in the corner of the ceiling.
“I don’t know, you’re the pro, what do you think?”
“How about we do a half and half for two-fifty?”
“Sounds fun,” I said, trying to sound excited.
“Drop your pants, I have to check your tool, health code.” I did as told and stood like a piece of meat for inspection. She raised an eyebrow when she saw all my scars. “You’ve had a rough life,” she said, then lifted my limp penis and inspected it closely. “Ok. I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” She took my bills and went out to pay the cashier. The girls split the money fifty-fifty with the house. In the bathroom I found a bowl of cotton balls and some Band-Aids next to an industrial size bottle of Betadine. Stepping up on her chair I bandaged a cotton ball over the microphone. When she returned I said I’d like a little music, to get in the mood. She turned a small radio on and tuned in a country station. Willie Nelson was singing about an angel flying too close to the ground. I pointed to the job I’d done on the microphone and Jessie smiled. “You’re one smart cookie. Not that it matters, but are you a cop?”
“No, just a man trying to find a friend.” Pulling my pants down again she kneeled between my legs, letting her bleached blonde hair fall over my lap.
“Just in case someone comes in,” she said. From the door it would look like she was taking care of business. “Cass was a sweet girl, tough as nails but not catty like the others. She didn’t hit on other girls’ regulars or any of the other crap most of these skanks do.”
“How long was she here?”
“About two months. I remember she was here for a big Easter party we threw for a busload of Japanese businessmen. She and I did a double for this one skinny dude. You sure you don’t want me to relieve a little tension while we talk? I mean, you paid for it and all.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What, stroke you? You like it, I can tell.”
“I’m not a John. I really just need help finding Cass.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank heaven for small favors.” She sighed looking up at me. “I get so tired of dick. Dick for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And sometimes dick for a midnight snack. On my day off I can’t even look at a hot dog, swear to god.” Her eyes sparkled with good humor.
“Rough life.”
“It isn’t digging a ditch, but sometimes it feels like it.”
“Are you going to tell me about Cass?”
“Ok, you’re not with the mob and you’re not a cop, I can tell, want to know how?”
“How?”
“You didn’t fuck me first and then ask your questions. Power boys always have time to get their nuts off. So here it is, a week or so ago, two guys in classy suits showed up, Cass took one look at them and slipped out of the lobby. Ditching lineup is a firing offense, but some girls do it, say they had to pee or some bullshit. They picked Venus and Gwen, two young girls with monster fake tit jobs. Afterwards, Gwen said the whole time the guy was fucking her, he was asking about Cass. She played dumb like she had never heard of Cass, she figured he had big bucks and maybe she could become his regular. She said he liked it rough, slapping her ass while he pumped her.
