No Such Thing as a Free Ride (19 page)

I thought back to the guy whose leg Nick broke, just because he wasn’t paying attention. I knew what he meant.

We drove along in silence for a while, entering neighborhoods I’d only visited on accident or a dare. There were bars on every storefront and apartment building window. Even the church on the corner looked like it would rather do its soul-saving by email.

We passed a strip joint. Girls of varying ages, sizes and color stood on the curb or in the doorway, wilting from the heat and calling out half-hearted enticements. “Live sex acts,” shouted one girl, garnering no attention whatsoever. “Totally air conditioned,” shouted another and three men bolted inside.

“So have you given any thought to what you’re gonna say if Little Red is home?” Alphonso asked, slowing the car.

“I’m still thinking about that.”

“Well, you’d better think fast. We’re here.” He pulled alongside the curb of an ugly four-story ’60’s style apartment building and parked.

“I was hoping you’d just beat the truth out of him,” I said.

“Works for me.”

“I was just joking,” I told him.
Sort’ve.

Alphonso opened his car door and swung one long leg onto the sidewalk.

“You coming?”

I looked down at my lap and nodded, only the rest of me stayed rooted to the seat.

Alphonso stuck his foot back in the Hummer, closed the door and leaned back against the seat, eyes closed. I couldn’t tell if he was relaxed or disgusted.

“I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I lied. “I just realized that I may not have totally thought things through.”

“I’ll bet that’s a first,” Alphonso said, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Okay, so maybe I am scared. And maybe I should have planned a little better, but at least I realized the error of my ways before I totally stepped in it. I consider this a personal triumph.”

“My little girl’s growing up,” he said, grinning.

“Shut-uh—-Ooh! Look. There he is!”

I ducked down in my seat as a familiar, pasty-faced figure in shades and a cowboy hat appeared from around the back of the apartment building and climbed into a black Escalade with tinted windows. The car looked incongruous amid the general decay of neighborhood.

Without bothering to stop for oncoming traffic, Little Red peeled out from the curb, leaving a trail of arrogance along with the skid marks. The hatred I felt for the man was visceral.

“Well, I guess that’s that.”

Alphonso raised his eyebrows over the rim of his shades. “Not necessarily. Come on.”

He climbed out of the Hummer and started walking toward the front of the building. I unbuckled the seat belt and jumped out of the car, scrambling to catch up to him.

“Alphonso, you saw him leave. Why are we still here?”

He stopped and looked down at me, hitching up his baggy pants in the process. I could see the tip of the Glock protruding from the back of his underwear like some hip, urban accessory.

“You can tell a lot about a person by his environment,” he told me.

We walked up the cement sidewalk, heating wafting off it like a stove top griddle. At the front entrance there was a glass double door that led into a dilapidated lobby. I peered inside. Two old guys were sitting opposite each other in matching, torn Naugahyde chairs. A small, scarred table sat between them, with a chess set resting on top. They didn’t so much as blink as Alphonso extracted a small, pointed instrument from his back pocket and proceeded to jimmy open the door.

We stepped inside and headed for the stairs, not trusting the look of the elevator.

“What’d you say the apartment number was?”

“Three-twelve.”

There was the distinct smell of urine in the stairwell, mixed with someone’s attempt to bleach it away. I held my breath and began the climb.

Little Red’s apartment was located at the far end of a long hallway. We passed some kids playing outside of one of the apartments. There were two boys, around eight or so, and a little girl. She couldn’t have been more than three, but she already wore the scowl of the defeated.

As we reached Little Red’s door, Alphonso walked past it to the very end of the hallway. There was an exit sign above a door. He took a quick peek inside and closed it again. I was pretty sure I knew what he was up to, but I still feigned surprise when he retraced his steps and took out his trade tool again. I guess at heart I’m a “bad girl” who just wants to
look
like a good one.

“Alphonso, I really appreciate your willingness to help me, but Breaking and Entering is still a felony, even if the guy who lives here is more ‘rat’ than actual person.”

“No worries, Sweetcakes. We’re just gonna take a little look-see.” He gave a cursory knock, waited a half a beat and then popped open the door like the seasoned professional he was.

Blackout curtains shielded the living room from prying eyes. Alphonso did a quick scan of the living room and kitchenette, looked out the window for signs of Little Red’s return and turned on a lamp.

My heart skipped a couple of beats as I contemplated running out the front door and forgetting the whole thing. After a minute I shrugged it off and began snooping around the pimp pad.

“I’m in a real den of iniquity,” I marveled aloud. “Y’know, it’s a little disappointing.”

“Well what’d you expect? Leopard skin furniture and furry dice hanging off the mirror?”

“Yeah, something like that. This is just your run of the mill boring-guy-with-bad-taste apartment.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he probably has another crib somewhere else. This dive is strictly for business so he can stay close to his girls.”

The living room was furnished with a standard issue plaid couch and a matching chair, two end tables and a couple of ugly lamps with shades that hadn’t seen a dust cloth since the turn of the century. A dirty mattress was laid out where a coffee table previously might have been.

“What’s with the mattress?” I asked.

“The way these guys operate, they cruise around looking for cold, tired, hungry kids and they offer them a place to stay, a meal. Make them feel wanted. This place may not be the Ritz, but to a newbie on the streets, it beats sleeping in a dumpster.”

I stepped around the mattress and into the first of two bedrooms.

The room was empty, except for two more mattresses that had been laid out side by side on the floor. They were sheetless and disturbingly filthy. An empty syringe lay at the foot of one of them. There was a body in the other.

I clamped my hand over my mouth and spun out of there, fast, bumping smack into Alphonso’s chest.

“There’s someone in there,” I stammered.

Alphonso whipped out the Glock and, motioning me behind him, we ventured back into the room.

It was a kid, about 17 or so, with long, greasy hair and the beginnings of a mustache.

He was naked from the waist up, the track marks on his arms advertising his drug of choice. He was either asleep or dead.

Alphonso shoved his gun back into his waistband and bent over the boy, checking for a pulse. He shook him, gently at first, then a little harder, eliciting a muffled moan.

“He’s okay,” Alphonso pronounced.

I began to move toward him but Alphonso stopped me.

“You can’t fix him, Brandy. Let him sleep it off.”

Reluctantly, I followed him down the hall to the other bedroom.

The door was bolted shut, but he had us inside in less than a minute. This room was decidedly more upscale with a real, king sized bed, clean sheets and a flat screen tv. I opened up the side table. There was a pipe, a bag of weed, some breath mints and a book of matches with the name of a local breakfast eatery.

I spied the top half of a phone bill peeking out of a wastebasket on the other side of the bed. I picked it up and pocketed it.

“Ooh, you’re crossing all sorts of lines, stealing the guy’s mail,” Alphonso said, impressed. “I think that’s a federal crime.”

“Yeah, well, a little B & E, a little mail pilfering—I like to mix it up. Besides, he already threw it away, so I’m actually just recycling his trash.”

“I like you, Alexander. You’re alright.”

“I like you, too, Alphonso.”

Our little love-fest was cut short by the sound of retching coming out of the other bedroom.

“I’ll go check on the kid,” he told me. “You finish up in here. We don’t want to overstay our welcome.”

Remembering what Harmony had told me about the acid, I shuddered. No, we certainly did not.

I opened the door to the walk-in closet. There must’ve been dozens of cowboy shirts and an equal number of slacks, all hung neatly in a color-coordinated row.
Talk about anal.
I kicked at a pile of dirty laundry and checked his pants pockets. All that yielded me was a card for an abortion clinic with the words “Fawn—9:30” written on it. I pocketed that too.

Next I checked under the bed. I had to admit, Little Red’s housekeeping skills were far superior to mine, at least in regard to his personal space. There wasn’t a shred of dust under there, let alone anything remotely resembling a clue as to Star’s whereabouts. He was either great at covering his tracks or he really
wasn’t
involved in Star’s disappearance, a thought that was doubly disappointing, seeing as he was just about the only suspect I had.

I stood up and began heading out of the room, when a major attack of the creeps overtook me. It was quiet. Too quiet, and in that split second I knew something was horribly wrong.

Fumbling around for my pepper spray, I resisted the urge to call out to Alphonso and instead crawled on all four’s to the doorway.

I stood up slowly and strained to hear something besides the erratic pounding of my own heart. From where I stood I couldn’t see anyone, but soon Alphonso’s voice echoed through the hall. Only it wasn’t the smooth baritone I was used to. It was high pitched and whiney, like a kid pleading with his dad to let him keep his skateboard after he’d left it in the driveway once too often. I couldn’t make out his words but he sounded none too happy.

Slowly I crept down the hallway, the can of pepper spray held tightly in my hand. As I got to the end, I peered around the corner and sucked in a breath as Little Red stood, back to me, with a micro uzi trained directly at Alphonso’s head.

My legs were shaking so hard I could barely support myself. I ducked back around the corner and weighed my options, briefly entertaining the possibility of sneaking out the front door while Little Red was otherwise occupied. But I knew if the roles had been reversed Alphonso wouldn’t ditch me. At least I
think
I knew that.

Alphonso stood stock still, hands in the air. If he had seen me he gave no indication of it. I propelled myself forward and could hear him clearly now.

“Aw man, I’m just lookin’ for my bitch. I heard she come sniffin’ around here lookin’ to hook up wit’chu, know what I mean? I didn’t take nuthin’. Just come for what’s mine. You know what I’m talkin’ about, man. Can’t let a ho dis you like that. Gonna bust a cap in her fat ass when I catch up with that bitch.” He began to sway, ever so slightly, which seemed to unnerve Little Red.

“Stand still you crazy son of a bitch,” he barked, which only made Alphonso rock harder.

Beyond them lay the kid, curled into a fetal position and rolling around in his own vomit. The whole tableau was like something out of a Quentin Tarantino movie, only without the fun background music.

I took a deep breath. Alphonso couldn’t afford for me to be paralyzed with fear. Clutching the pepper spray, I began inching up behind little Red. I was
beyond
thought. I was
beyond
fear. I was on a mission.

As Alphonso kept up his steady stream of crazy talk, I took the cold, metal tube of pepper spray and jammed it into the back of Little Red’s head.

“Drop the gun, ass-wipe, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out,” I growled, giving it my best “Joe Pesci in
Good Fella’s
” impression.

He froze and I pressed harder. “Drop the fucking gun.” I repeated. “Slowly.”

Little Red lowered his arm slowly and let the uzi fall to the floor. Alphonso stepped forward, and in one fluid motion, kicked the gun out of the way, brought his arm into a perfect arc and pounded his fist into the pimp’s face.

Then he watched with utter satisfaction as Little Red crumpled to the floor, a steady torrent of blood streaming from his nose. He was out cold.

“Come on, Sweetcakes, time to go home.”

Now that the adrenalin rush was over, every day activities such as walking and breathing seemed really complicated. “Um, okay, just give me a sec.”

I leaned against the door jam, my eyes resting on the boy. “What do we do about the kid?” I asked. “We can’t just leave him here.”

“It’ll cause more problems for him if we don’t. I’m sorry, Brandy,” he shrugged. “It’s just the way it is.”

Tears of frustration welled up in me. “C’mon,” he said, again, more gently.

“Just a minute. There’s something I have to do.”

I turned and marched back into Little Red’s closet and rearranged all his meticulously color-coded shirts and pants, creating fashion-wear havoc. Satisfied with my small victory, I walked out the apartment door.

We didn’t talk much on the ride home. Alphonso slipped in a c.d., something dark and sultry, and I leaned back against the head rest and thought about what I would have done if Little Red had called my bluff. The truth is I had no friggin’ idea.

As a nod to my two months in therapy, I gave myself a moment to “feel the pain” and then I shrugged it off. I figured if I was going to hang out with the big boys, I needed to learn how to shake off these near-death experiences like Alphonso does.
“No biggie,” that’s my new motto.

“So, Alphonso,” I told him, “I guess everything’s cool, huh?”

He cut me a look. “
Have you been sniffing glue?
That was some scary shit we got dealt back there. But I’m impressed with you, Sweetcakes, you really had my back. You could’ve just snuck out and left me there.”

“The thought never crossed my mind.”