Caper (3 page)

It occurred to me she didn't look like a hooker, but maybe that's what men want. A hooker who looks like a little girl.

Okay, this is the point where I step in, scare the shit out of her, send her home.
Scared Straight
. A documentary way back when. Notable for using words you couldn't say on television that got by because it was such a good cause. Peter Falk took kids at risk, showed them what life would be like for them in prison, huge tattooed convicts fucking them up the ass and trading them for smokes. Kids were all out of trouble when the show aired, indicating the lesson worked, though I seem to recall the tabloids taking great delight in reporting any subsequent arrests.

At any rate, if that was the role I had to play, so be it. At this point it wasn't the money. There she was, a sweet young thing, and nobody, but nobody, was getting their hands on her.

I no sooner had that thought when a car pulled up to the curb, honked, and she ran over and hopped into the front seat.

With her book bag. The book bag killed me. Despite the fact she'd just come out of school, it looked like a prop.

The car pulled away from the curb.

I hadn't seen the driver. Not that the car had tinted windows, just that the passenger side was to the curb, and the car was at an angle so that I couldn't see in when she opened the door.

Well, that was just great. Not only had I failed to save the girl from a life of sin, but she had managed to accomplish it right under my very nose.

I rushed out into the street and hailed a cab. Fat chance. There were no taxis anywhere. Just school buses clogging the street. Except for one small fissure the girl's car had managed to squeeze through. I hadn't caught the plate, or even the make of the car.

I ran around the buses, spotted the car at a red light at the end of the block. What the hell kind of car was it? It looked new, it looked expensive, it looked like its occupant and I didn't belong in the same league.

Then, miracle of miracles, a taxi squeezed by the bus, its light like a beacon of hope. I hailed it, hopped in.

The driver, one Felipe Rodriguez, according to the license posted on the glove compartment, said, “Where to?”

“Follow that car,” I told him.

I expected him to argue. He just said, “The Lexus?”

So that's what it was. “Yeah, the Lexus. Can you catch it?”

“Are you kiddin' me?”

The cabby popped the clutch. At least he would have if there had been a clutch. The cab, of course, was an automatic. I wondered when was the last time a cabby actually popped a clutch. Then my neck snapped like a rubber band and the cab rocketed down the street. Within seconds we were right on the Lexus's tail.

“Hey, don't let him know we're following.”

“Why should he? This is how I always drive.”

I shut up, checked my vertebrae for whiplash. My spinal cord seemed intact.

The mad cabbie tailed the Lexus to Fifth Avenue and 88th. Where, to my delight, it slowed, signaled, and …

Drove into an underground garage.

“Shit.”

“Too bad,” the cabbie said.

“Can you park?”

“Huh?”

“Pull in and park. I'll pay the fee.”

“It's a private garage.”

I knew that. I asked the question with no hope, the way you will sometimes, even though you know the answer.

I paid off the cab and got out. Weighed my options. I had the license plate number. I could trace the car. But that wasn't going to help me now.

I went around to the front. It was your typical Fifth Avenue building, brass and glass door, with artistic bric-a-brac. I pushed it open, went inside.

There was a liveried doorman at a desk. “May I help you?” he said, in a neutral tone, neither encouraging nor disapproving, ready to go in either way should I turn out to be a bill collector or a wealthy tenant's brother.

I gave him my warmest smile. “I think a friend of mine just pulled into the garage.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. But I'm not sure. Do you have a video monitor?”

“Yes.”

“Does it cover the garage?”

The doorman had a cultivated supercilious arrogance that did not bode well. “Who's your friend?”

“I'd rather not say, in case I'm wrong.”

“I see.”

“So whose car is it?”

He smiled. “I'd rather not say in case you're wrong.”

I went outside, flipped open my cell phone, called MacAullif. “Can you trace a license plate number for me?”

“Whose is it?”

“One of the hooker's johns. Can you do it, MacAullif? It would really help.”

“Why? What the fuck are you doing? You trying to rescue this girl, or take down her johns?”

“Come on, MacAullif. The guy picked her up in his car, took her to his Fifth Avenue apartment. Got an underground garage, doesn't even have to take her by the front desk. He's got her up there now doing God knows what.”

“So?”

“I'd like to know where she is.”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“What's your plan? You gonna bust in on 'em, drag her outta there? How you gonna get past the front desk?”

“She's sixteen.”

“So what?”

“It's a crime. A crime is being committed.”

“So.”

“You can go in to stop a crime. Even without a warrant.”

“You're not a cop.”

“Anyone can make a citizen's arrest.”

“Right. You go to the front desk, say, ‘Hi. I think one of your tenants is banging a teenage hooker. I don't have a warrant and I'm not a cop, but I'd like to go up and see.'”

“I get the point.”

“Of course you do, you fucking, annoying, scumbag son of a bitch. You knew it before you made the call. You don't want to go in. You want me to send the vice squad to made the bust, and a SWAT team to kick down the door. On the flimsiest, thirdhand, hearsay evidence ever.”

“I saw him with my own eyes.”

“Really? What does he look like?”

“Well, I saw his car.”

“Oh, my god. You're a moron of the highest order. Look, I'll trace the license number for you, but I won't drop the two homicides I'm working on to do it. I'll have it for you by tomorrow. If that doesn't allow you to change into your Superman suit and save the day, I'm sorry, but I happen to have this job. Jesus Christ, what did I ever do to deserve this,” MacAullif said, and hung up the phone.

7

S
HE WAS OUT AT A QUARTER TO SIX.
N
EARLY TWO HOURS.
I hope he paid her well. She didn't look the worse for wear, but then, she was young. Give her a couple of years and it would take its toll.

Not if I had anything to say about it.

I stepped out in the middle of the sidewalk, blocked her way. “Hi, there.”

She didn't react like a hooker. Unless she pegged me for a cop. She sure didn't act like I was a john. She drew back, and her face contorted into an
ooh-gross!
expression. “Who are you?”

“The real question is who are you?”

“What?”

“You're at a crossroads, sweetheart. And you don't wanna take the wrong turn.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I'm talking about. You may think it's easy money, but it's not. It's the hardest money you ever made.”

“You're crazy.”

“I know you think so now. In a couple of years you'll think different.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm your best friend. I wanna help you.”

“If you don't go away I'll scream.”

“That wouldn't be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Cops will come. You don't want that.”

“
You
don't want that. Old man, bothering a girl.”

“As opposed to the ones who give you money.”

“You want to give me money?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Wait'll I tell the cops you offered me money.”

“I
didn't
offer you money.”

“
I
say you did. Let's see who they believe.”

And, just like that, she went from teenage nymphet to hardened whore. I could see her ratting me out to the cops, playing it virginal, laughing up her sleeve.

“Look, Sharon.”

Her eyes widened. “You know my name. How do you know my name?”

“I'm your guardian angel.”

“You're a lunatic. You keep away from me.”

“How much did the guy in the Lexus pay you?”

Her mouth fell open, and her eyes bugged out of her head. “What?!”

“I know what you did. I'm just wondering what it was worth. In money, I mean. Not from a moral point of view.”

Her lip trembled. “Leave me alone.”

“Fine. I'll leave you alone. Just think on this. It's two
A.M.,
you can't sleep, you haven't eaten in days, haven't showered in weeks. But you need a fix, so you pull some loser off the street, some strung-out freak who isn't afraid of AIDS because he's probably got it himself, and you offer every single orifice in the hope the loser actually has some cash. And it's a toss-up, a fifty-fifty chance, whether the creep will slip you a couple of bucks or simply slit your throat. And you don't really care much which. How does that sound?”

She stared at me a moment. Then she burst out crying, and ran off down the street.

8

“Y
OU IDIOT
!”

Sharon's mother looked angry enough to hurl a paperweight. Thank god I don't have one. I sat behind my desk, prepared to brace myself in case Jennifer Weldon decided to come across it. “What's the matter?”

“You son of a bitch! My daughter came home in tears. She was accosted on the street by an insane man, spewing vile filth.”

“She took it hard?”

“You admit it was you?”

“Of course it was me.”

“What, are you nuts? Are you trying to traumatize the girl?”

“Yes, of course.”

Jennifer blinked. “What?”

“I was doing
Scared Straight
. You know, with Peter Falk.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind, you're too young. I was putting the fear of God in the girl to leave the life of sin.”

“Who asked you to do that?”

“Well, I had to do something. I only had one day.”

“Did I ask you to
reform
my daughter? To
scare
my daughter? To even
talk
to my daughter? No. All I asked you to do was
follow
my daughter.”

“I followed your daughter.”

“That's
all
you were supposed to do. Follow her and report back to me. Was that so hard?”

“I don't see why you're so upset.”

“You traumatized a young girl.”

“Bullshit. This is New York City. Things like that happen all the time.” I put up my hands. “I know, I know, I'm giving the city a bad rap. I like it here. Things like that don't happen all the time. But in a city this size, that's all I was saying. Trust me, she'll get over it.”

“I'm glad you're so sure. She happened to be very upset.”

“Did she tell you where she was when I spoke to her?”

“Yeah. On the street. In the middle of the goddamned street.”

“Before that.”

“Huh?”

“Did she tell you where she was before that? She got out of school, walked out in the street, and got picked up by the first car that slowed down.”

“Yeah. Danny Goldstein. Got his driver's license. I shouldn't let her ride with him, but I do.”

“What?”

“You don't approve? Pardon me but I'm not taking my parenting advice from you.”

“Danny Goldstein has a Lexus?”

“It's his parents' car. Probably a Lexus. I don't know.”

“You had me follow her when she was being picked up by a classmate?”

“He's not a classmate. He's a year older. Goes to Hunter.”

“Good for him.” I was having trouble controlling my temper. “Why did you have me follow her if you knew she was going home with a friend?”

“I didn't know she was going home with him. You think she tells me anything? So, you really screwed things up.”

I took a breath. Tried to keep the steam from spewing out my ears. “Yes, I did. Without getting into whose fault it was, let's just say nothing was accomplished. No harm, no foul. Your daughter got scared by a random guy in the street. She'll get over it. So will I, and, believe it or not, so will you. Here's your money back. Find some other guy and start over.”

That rocked her in her sockets. There's nothing like the shock of someone acting against their own best interests to grab your attention. For the first time since I met her, she lost some of her self assurance.

“You don't want the money?”

“I don't want the grief. You think I did a bad job, fine. Let's take a page out of Bob Dylan's book and pretend that we never met.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, hell, you're too young for Dylan. This just ain't my day.”

She was really agitated. I could tell because her chest was rising and falling inside a loose purple cotton top that tended to gape every time she leaned forward. No, I was not looking, I don't know where I got that image.

“Did I ask you for the money back? I didn't ask you for the money back. I paid you, you did the job. You may have done it poorly, but you did it, and I always pay my way. The job is over, finished, done. Give me your report and I'll get out of here.”

“My report?”

“Yes.”

“You expect a written report? I thought you didn't want your husband to know.”

“Not a written report. A report. Tell me what you did.”

“I told you what I did.”

“You told me like an old woman. I want to hear it like a private eye.”