Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [84]
"I don't do triples, honey. Your friends want to wait their turn, or I can ask a couple of my girlfriends along? Whatever you say, anyway you want to do it."
"I'm looking for Cherry. Wasn't that her that just went by? Girl in a red leather coat?"
"Yeah, catch Cherry wearing somethin' that'd cover her ass. Fat chance, get it?" She blew smoke airily at the night ceiling. "Cherry? Cherry ain't nothin', man. Whatever you heard 'bout her, you can double up for me."
They all sing the same sad song.
"How much is the ride?" I asked her.
"How far you want to drive, honey? Around the world?" And they all use the same lyrics.
"Short time," I said, looking for the quickest way in.
"Twenty–five."
"Bring Cherry to the car, I'll give you twenty."
"I don't see no cash."
"I don't see no Cherry."
They came back together. Cherry was shorter, stockier. Her wig was blonde.
"Hi, honey! You lookin' for me?"
"If you're Cherry."
"That's me, baby. You heard about me, huh?"
"I'm looking for a friend. Your friend. He'd of told you I was coming."
"Oh yeah. He's right…"
"Tell me his name."
"You mean the Prophet, don't ya? Yeah! An ugly white man would come to set me free…Wow! Just like he said."
I handed the other girl a pair of tens. She moved into the line of whores working the other cars. Cherry got into the back seat. Virgil took one whiff, pushed his own window down. Lloyd sat across from her, watching like he'd seen E.T. up close.
Cherry told me where to drive. One block up, a right turn into an alley. ROOMS, the wooden sign said, hanging lopsided over a door to a house that looked older than greed. I followed her inside, Lloyd behind me, Virgil last. Up a flight of stairs. We were the only whites in the joint. We watched their hands, looking for the truth.
Voices from an open door at the end of the hall. A pimp's sandpaper voice on top.
"I don't give a fuck who you say you is or what you say you want, you midget motherfucker. You don't come in here and work no girls. This is my place. Now you get your black ass outta here or I cut a piece of it off!"
We stepped inside. Burly thug with a shaved head, dressed all in white leather right down to his cowboy boots. Holding a straight razor in his hand.
The Prof was seated in a ragged armchair, wrapped in a khaki raincoat tenting around his tiny body. As calm as a man watching a movie—one he'd seen before. The pimp stepped aside as we entered, dropping into a slight crouch.
"Hey, schoolboy," the Prof greeted me. "You got a pistol with you?"
"Sure," I told him, taking it out.
"Good. Now will you please shoot this stupid farmer before he cuts someone?"
"Okay," I replied, cocking the piece.
"Hey, man…"
Virgil moved his coat. The sawed–off shotgun eyed the pimp.
"Oh, man. You remembered!" the Prof said. Like it was his brand of beer. He turned to the pimp. "You see how it is, fool. A knife don't make it right, but a gun can make it fun."
The pimp pocketed his razor, slid toward the door, his eyes filled with wonder. He'd seen guns before…but a tiny black man with a preacher's voice who used hillbillies for enforcers was science fiction. The legend of the Prophet was due for another installment.
We didn't block his path, letting him go. I tracked his face, making sure he knew I'd remember him.
Nobody had to tell him. Don't come back.
158
IN THE LINCOLN, the Prof barked directions like he'd lived in that maze all his life. We parked in a row of garages. Cherry jumped out, opened a padlock. A shocking–purple car with a long, low hood and a black vinyl top stood inside. The Prof handed me a set of keys. We all climbed out.
"This is it?" I asked him.
"You can take that tank to the bank, bro'. It'll stop what he's got. Papers in the glove box."
"I'll meet you back at the house," I told Virgil. "Give me the scattergun, case you get stopped."
He handed it over.
Cherry turned to the Prof. "You not comin'?"
"You go back to the room, beautiful. Wait for me. Stay