Pain Management

“Sounds right to me,” I said after a while. “The suits are G-men. And the local law put them onto this guy Kruger.”

“But why would the feds care about a runaway?” she said softly, much closer to me than I’d thought.

“Maybe the Mann Act. The state line’s, what, ten minutes north of here? Kruger run underage girls?”

“Not a chance. He’s an old pro.”

“Yeah . . .” I spooled it out slowly, thinking it through. “If Kruger’s tight with the local rollers, there’s only two reasons for it: he’s handing out cash, or he’s piping info. Either way, I can’t see them touting the federales on him so quick.”

“You want to ask?”

“The suits?”

“No,” she said, her lips against my ear. “Kruger.”

The hooker was a tall brunette, wearing a transparent wrap over what looked like a lime-green two-piece bathing suit.

“Oh!” she said when Ann’s window slid down.

“Just keep working,” Ann told her.

The hooker got the message, stuck her head inside the window so it was inches from Ann. Anyone watching from the outside would see her hips, figure she was negotiating.

“Tell Kruger I want to see him,” Ann said.

“Who’s this?” the girl asked, looking over at me. “Your man?”

“The other way around,” Ann said.

“You’re working?”

“Sort of. Mr. Hazard over there, he’s the one in charge.”

“And it’s him wants to see Kruger?”

“That’s right, Chantal.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“You got your chalk?”

“I . . . I ran out.”

“You stupid cunt,” Ann said sharply. “I feel like slapping your dumb mouth.”

Chantal licked her lips. Said, “Yum yum.”

“Ah . . .” Ann said, disgustedly. “What color is yours?”

“Pink. Well, fuchsia, actually. But that bitch Shasta’s been using it, too.”

Ann was rummaging around in her huge purse. “Here,” she said, handing over a small box of chalk. “This is fuchsia, okay?”

“Okay, honey.” Chantal grinned at her.

“Oh, get your skinny ass out of here.”

Chantal gave Ann a loud, smacking kiss, turned, and swivel-hipped her way down the block.

“What was that all about?” I asked Ann as I pulled back into traffic.

“You heard.”

“I don’t mean about this Kruger guy. The chalk.”

“Oh. Every girl’s supposed to carry chalk. When they see another girl get in a car and go off, they write the license number down. On the curb, on the side of a building, it doesn’t matter. If the girl doesn’t come back, maybe it’d help find whoever . . . whoever’s responsible.”

“But if they each have their own color, the cops could . . .”

“The cops don’t have a clue,” she said, almost defiantly. “It’s about self-protection. This way, there’d be a specific witness, instead of some ‘word on the street’ crap. We’d be the ones in control, not the cops. They wouldn’t be hassling any girl who came forward, not at all—she’d be their lead witness. One maniac out there threatens everyone. We don’t get him dropped, he stays out there.”

“You actually convinced working girls to do this?”

“Why not? You’ve been around the track for more than a few laps. You should know better than to think they’re all morons.”

“Sure. It’s just . . . hard to think of hookers so . . . organized.”

“They’re really not,” Ann said, sadly. “I mean, sure, I’ve got some of them doing the chalk thing. A good number of them, actually. But it’s not like you can always rely on them. Girls in the same stable, they call themselves wives-in-law, but they’re more likely to hate each other than to think of themselves as sisters.”

“So why bother?”

“They do what they do for . . . a lot of reasons.”

“Another form of pain management.”

“Yes! I . . . Oh, you’re making fun of me, is that it?”

“No,” I said, turning my face to hold her eyes.

“You’re sure?” Hong asked me.

“Yeah. I saw it with my own eyes. They run a strike-line through the license plate when the girl comes back to the stroll.”

“Chalk, huh? That wouldn’t last too long, kind of weather we get around here.”

“The idea wasn’t to make a permanent record.”

“And each girl has her own color?”

“No. That’s just what . . . what they were told. There aren’t enough different colors to go around. Just a way of making them feel a little special, maybe.”

“Working girls don’t cooperate with us, unless . . .”

“Unless you’ve got a case on them, sure. This isn’t about the cops, it’s about them. They’re cooperating with themselves.”

“You think this is something they’ve been doing all along?”

“I don’t know. But they know someone’s out there, picking them off. This . . . I don’t know, maybe it makes them feel a little more secure.”

“If what you say is true—”

“Let’s take a ride,” I said.

“Where to?” he asked, buckling himself in behind the thick-rimmed Momo wheel.

“You decide. If I pick a spot, you’ll think it’s a setup.”

“I . . . Okay.”

He drove in silence. I ran my eyes over the interior. It was all custom—black anodized aluminum dash with extra dials, black numbers on white faces, with red needles. Even what I guessed was a boost gauge mounted on the A-pillar. When he hit the gas, the turbo whine convinced me I was right.

“I don’t see a switch for the bottle,” I said.

“No nitrous,” Hong answered, knowing where I was going. “Twin turbos. The front’s all intercooler and heat exchanger.”

“So nothing until you tach up to, what, five grand?”

“A little more than that,” he admitted.

“And no torque.”

“Maybe not. But I’ve got a glove box full of eleven-second time slips.”

“Yeah? You must give the Detroit boys fits.”

“Some of them. You don’t fancy the rice-burners, right?”

“I’m from a different generation,” I told him. “No substitute for cubic inches.”

“There’s a lot of that still going around,” he said, smiling.

In the next hour or so, we watched maybe a dozen pickups. And counted seven separate times when chalk-holding hookers recorded the plates. “Pretty damn good average,” Hong admitted.

“Worth something?”

“Could be. What did you have in mind?”

“Kruger.”