innocent toothpaste commercial smile. Even toasted, I realized she didn’t belong here with a bunch of degenerates like Rusty, my teammates … and me.
The offensive line sat at the bar, looking like giant beer kegs on a loading dock. Models of teamwork, the guys maintained their usual positions, the center in the middle of the group, flanked by both guards, and then the tackles. The tight end must have been taking a piss. One of our defensive backs-a showboater, but aren’t they all? — was demonstrating his karaoke prowess, with a soulful rendition of “Midnight Train to Georgia.” Half a dozen strippers were offering companionship in exchange for tips.
I had just won a drinking game called “Who Shit?” Yeah, I know, very mature. In those days, fueled by testosterone and tequila, I often engaged in clever activities, such as pounding holes in plasterboard with my forehead.
Rusty staggered over, grabbed Krista by the shoulders, and hoisted her out of her chair. “Wanna ride the wild stallion?”
Her body stiffened.
“How old are you, kid?” I asked, realizing she wanted no part of Rusty’s rodeo.
“Twenty-one.”
“Right. And I’m gonna make All-Pro. Rusty, why not pick on someone old enough to vote. Or at least old enough to drive?”
“Stay out of this, benchwarmer.” Rusty slung her onto his back and gave her a horsey ride to the Champagne Room, a dark place separated from the VIP Room by a beaded curtain.
I gave Sonia a look, but she just shrugged.
Rusty will be Rusty.
We left it at that. Rusty was a star, and I was a free agent linebacker, specializing in kamikaze tackles on the kickoff team. My deepest concerns involved running faster and hitting harder. I read the sports pages and the Dolphins’ playbook and little else. I was not given to profound thoughts.
A few moments later, I heard a scream from the back.
A man’s scream. Rusty yelping, then cursing. The words starting with “motherfucking” and ending with a word that rhymes with “punt.” I tore through the beaded curtain and flicked on the lights.
“Bitch stabbed me, Jake!”
Rusty was sprawled naked on the floor. A knife handle protruded from his right buttock, blood seeping around the blade.
“She had a fucking knife in her boot!” Rusty was gasping for air, and I was afraid he was going into shock.
“Calm down, cowboy. We’ll get you to Jackson.”
“No hospitals, Jake. No police. That doc in Hialeah. Get me there.”
The girl was curled in the fetal position in a corner of the sofa. Sobbing. Nude except for one white patent leather boot. She had a bloody lip and her neck was ringed with red marks. Four fingers and a thumb had pressed into her flesh. I could even make out the imprint of Rusty’s Super Bowl ring.
“Jesus, Rusty, what the hell did you do to her?”
“I paid for it rough.” He hacked up a wet cough. “She knew what she was getting into.”
By now, three of our larger teammates had crowded through the doorway. They debated who would take Rusty to Dr. Torano in Hialeah, finally deciding all of them would go. Offensive linemen believe in teamwork. My job was to take care of the girl, or more accurately, make sure the girl caused no problems for Rusty or the team.
I stripped off my jersey and handed it to her. She put it on, sniffled, and wiped her nose with her arm. “You’re not gonna call the cops on me, are you?”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“I stabbed your friend.”
“Knowing Rusty, he deserved it.”
She gave me a look, somewhere between relief and disbelief.
“Some women I know would give you a medal,” I said. “And trust me, the cops would be worse for Rusty than for you.” I opened my wallet and pulled out several twenties.
Jake the Fixer.
I jammed the bills into her hand. Years before I became a night-school lawyer, I was already massaging the justice system. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
She touched her neck with one hand, feeling where she had been choked.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” I dabbed the blood from her lip with a napkin. Our faces were just inches apart, her green-gold eyes staring into mine.
“I need to get out of here,” she said.
“Good idea. Do you have a car?”
“Out of Miami. Out of this …” Her gesture took in the stained vinyl sofa, the cheesy nude prints, the entire mildewed, sleaziness of the place. “Can you help me?”
“I’m not a social worker. Come on.”
“You’re kind of cute. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Dozens. Now, where do you live? I’m gonna get you a cab.”
“Let’s go to your place.”
“Nope. Too many sharp objects in the kitchen.”
“Just for the night.”
“And then tomorrow, what?”
“I never worry about tomorrow.”
“Poetic. Where do you live?”
“Please. I’ll do anything you want.” In case I didn’t get the point, her tongue darted between painted lips. When I didn’t respond, she grabbed my hand and slipped it under the jersey and onto a warm, natural, silken breast. She took my other hand, raised it to her face, and stuck my thumb into her mouth. She sucked it. Hard and with plenty of tongue and slurping sound effects. Subtlety was not the girl’s strong suit.
I was tempted. Who the hell wouldn’t have been? But I was still thinking about Rusty and cops and curfews and Coach Shula. A human cold shower.
“Not gonna happen, kid,” I said.
She pushed my hand out from under the jersey and spit my thumb out of her mouth. “Asshole!”
“Right. Okay, where do you live?”
“Miami Springs, but I don’t want to go back there. There’s this guy.…”
“There usually is,” I said. Figuring she lived with some punk. A drug dealer or a pimp.
“An old guy,” she continued. “Like almost forty. He pays my rent and wants me to do these gross movies, and-”
“No time for life stories. I’m paying for a cab. You decide where to go.”
She looked at me then, her eyes empty and defeated. Another man letting her down. I imagined a father or a stepfather, a creep who did things that pushed her out the door and into a seedy place like this.
But I can’t save the world. I can’t even save one lost girl.
We didn’t exchange another word, and after I tucked her into the cab, I never saw her again.
