Pain Management (23 page)

“Two men,” she said, watching me closely. “White. Late thirties, early forties. Short hair, government suits. And they’re offering something better than what you put out there.”

“Which is?”

“Get Out Of Jail Free cards.”

“They’re promising . . . what? Immunity? A break on sentencing? A stay-away off some operation that’s running?”

“They’re saying they can ‘take care’ of things. Not being specific. But they’re making the rounds.”

“You know this exactly . . . how?”

“One of the people they talked to is someone . . . someone it’s important to me to keep tabs on.”

“This is getting more complicated with the telling.”

“No. No, it isn’t. Don’t bother baiting me; I’m already telling you what I know. The man, the name he goes by is Kruger.”

“Kruger? Is that supposed to be German?”

“It’s short for Krugerrand. He’s a pimp. Word is, he got the name a long time ago, when he put all his money into gold, got rich when inflation hit.”

“Doesn’t sound like any pimp I ever heard of.”

“He’s smarter than most, I’ll give him that. But the story may be all nonsense. Stuff gets distorted on the street, you know that.”

“Yeah. Stuff like two white men—”

“These two men, they went to see Kruger, that much I know for sure.”

“How?”

“There’s a nightclub where he hangs out. He likes to do business with his ladies draped around him.”

“And one of them talks to you?”

“More than one. And he knows it.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“He’s a pimp,” she said, as if that explained everything. “To a pimp, it’s all game. Everything anybody does; ever. All game. He knows what I do—what people
say
I do, anyway—but he’s not buying it. He thinks I’m all about something else.”

“What?”

“He thinks I’m trying to pull his girls. And not just his. The way he has it scoped, I’m a dyke with a plan.”

“You wouldn’t be the first—”

“Lesbian pimp? Of course not. Some dominas make their subs . . . Ah, never mind. Kruger’s not the only one who thinks that’s my play. But he’s the only one with enough power to be a problem.”

“Anyone with money could be a—”

“Sure,” she said, cutting me off. “I’m not talking about money. Kruger’s connected.”

“How high?”

“I don’t know. Nobody does. But,” she said, holding up her hand like a traffic cop to stop whatever she thought I was going to say, “it’s not just street talk. For sure, he’s got an in with the blue boys.”

“So anybody putting pressure on him would be—”

“Yes. That’s about the size of it.”

I leaned back in the chair. Closed my eyes, trying to see it. Ann moved closer. Soundlessly, but I could feel the air displace next to me. And smell her sugarcane perfume.

“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.”

“I’m not on the pussy posse,” he said, proudly. “I work Homicide.”

“I know. I’m not looking for anything on him. Just checking out something I
heard
about him.”

“Which is?”

“That he’s wired.”

“An informant?”

“That’s one way to use the word. The other way is . . . connected.”

“What are you saying?” he said, voice going soft with threat. “That he’s got cops in his pocket?”

“I’m not
saying
anything. I’m
asking,
remember?”

Hong pulled to the curb. “No smoking in the car,” he said. Then he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out. I followed.

He took out his gunmetal case, offered me one. I took it. He lit us both from his lighter.

“Kruger’s a very careful man,” he said, finally. “He’s got heavy game, but that’s what it is—game. He doesn’t run them underage, doesn’t play with coat hangers. . . . If a girl wants to go, he doesn’t try and hold her. But he’s got a real organization. Lawyers on retainer, owns a bunch of apartments where he puts up the girls. He’s smart enough to let them keep some money, go shopping, you know. He pays for medicals, won’t have anyone on waste drugs.”

“Waste drugs?”

“Crack. High-octane speed—you know, like dust. I don’t mean he’s anti-drug, just that he’s got his rules. Snow, E, recreational stuff—it’s all part of The Life. And they all want to style. His stuff is always the best, on all levels. It’s a prestige thing to be one of his girls. And he’s okay with anything that lets them keep working.”

“So, as pimps go . . .”

“It’s not like that. We’d have a hell of a time making a case against him. The man is clever. And he’s been at it a long time. Most pimps, they give us something besides a pandering charge to work with—assault, that’s the most common. Kruger, he’s absolutely nonviolent when it comes to the girls.”

“But he’s got muscle working for him?”

“Nothing serious. More like bodyguards than to do any work on anyone, you understand?”

“I do. But, even with all that . . .”

“He’s been . . . helpful, I won’t deny that,” Hong said. “In his business, he hears things. And he’s been known to pass stuff along. Compare that to our chances of ever nailing him on anything big. . . .”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah. The only way Kruger’s exposed is with the IRS. But that’s not us; that’d be the feds.”

“You got anything
way
upscale?” I asked Gordo the next morning.

“Like a Rolls? In that league?”

“Yeah.”

“We got . . .” he said slowly, looking around the big garage, “I don’t know,
hombre.
Stuff flashes; don’t mean it costs, right?”

“Right.”

“We got the Cigarette,” Flacco offered.

“The what?” I asked him.

“Cigarette,
amigo.
Like the boat.”

“That’s flash all right,” I agreed. “But I don’t think, where I’m going, they got a dock.”

“No, no. I don’t mean the boat. I mean the people who
make
the boat. ‘Cigarette,’ it’s like a brand name. They take certain cars, work them over, then they put their own name on it.”

“Like AMG does with Mercs?”

“
¡Sí!
You got it.”

“What do they work on?”

“Suburbans.”

“Like
Chevy
Suburbans? Those giant SUVs?”

“
Lots
of aftermarket tuners rework the big ones, man,” Flacco said, and ticked off names on his fingers, “Ultrasmith, Becker, Stillen . . . Suburbans, Excursions . . . turn them into mini-limos. Come here, take a look at this baby.”

The Suburban’s black paint was so deep it looked like the whole thing had been dipped in oil. A faint pair of red stripes swept from the front wheel well to the rear quarter panel, where a white oval with a big red “1” in the middle sat proudly. I stepped closer. The beast sat on what had to be twenty-inch star-pattern wheels, the better to display the red Brembo calipers lurking underneath. It squatted low, its air of menace enhanced by the lack of chrome and the xenon headlights.

“Check out the threads,” Gordo said, opening the front door.

The interior was wall-to-wall gray . . . leather everywhere but the floor. The instruments in the dash and on the console were white-faced, with red numerals. It did look a little like the cockpit of a fast boat.

“Got kicker speakers, flat-screen DVD set into the back of the headrests, GPS . . . anything you could want,” Gordo said.

“Can it get out of its own way?” I asked, more to make conversation than anything else. For what I wanted, it could be as fast as an anchored rowboat.

“For
damn
sure,” Gordo promised. “Sucker’s huffed. Got headers, and a chip, too, I think. Cruise all day at a buck and a quarter.”

“It’d be perfect,” I said.

“Listen,
compadre,
” Flacco said, pulling me aside. “Me and Gordo, we’ve been thinking. . . .”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been borrowing a lot of different rides. . . .”

“I know. And if anyone’s beefed, I can—”