Chapter 3
"Transfer, please.. . . "
"Huh?" The mini bus driver gaped between heads of boarders clambering into his Mission vehicle, to get a closer look at the Charles Dickens youth dropping two quarters from manicured fingers into the coin box. Strands of silken blonde hair peeked out under the tweed billed cap shadowing a set of wide blue eyes the color of Marin County skies in the heat of August, accentuated by high, David Bowie cheek bones. Despite the over-sized, patched jacket and suspendered trousers, something sensually ethereal trapped his attention. San Francisco had its potpourri of humanity, but this creature belied all stereotypes!
"Yeah, sure kid." The driver peeled off a transfer slip as the slight-framed creature headed toward the back of the bus.
The driver's blatant stare unnerved Sherrie, not that she wasn't nervous enough. Through narrowed eyes, she glared back and grabbed the transfer from his fingers, reading his thoughts too clearly. He probably thinks Fm a male prostitute! The things I have to go through to get a lousy story!
Sherrie threw herself into the nearest seat and carefully tucked an errant strand of gold back under her cap. Eyes leveled on her from every direction, setting her at war with herself. Stomach muscles knotted with apprehension. Maybe she should have accepted a common human interest story, like the Marin County dog poisoner or the plight of the hapless elderly, instead of tackling a cold-blooded child molester single handed!
A bubble of sixth-sense rationale seemed to stick in her throat; the feeling that many of us experience and shrug off as deja vu, when indeed we should listen and listen well! Sherrie's stomach muscles began to knot. But it was too late to turn back now. Potters was hungry for a story.
The bus rumbled along, hydraulic brakes hissing at every guttered curb to open its doors to unhurried passengers heading to and from dingy pawn shops.
One could buy and sell anything in the Tenderloin: mother's wedding ring, blood, your own flesh. This section of the city echoes days of the Great Depression, earthquake ravages of 1906, even the recent tragedy of the mayoral assassination occurred not five blocks away. The giant sponge of decadence, mayhem and disorder.
This dispirited aura struck the blue-eyed news reporter as lithely she hopped down from the bus' step, kiddie-corner from the "Peep Show Palace."
The air smelled sour, the cement beneath her tiny feet stained. A lump caught in her throat. A set of impossible wide, innocent blue eyes peered out from under a black and white tweed billed hat, watching, measuring the slow steps of winos in no hurry to go anywhere. Ahead a crowd of tattered, leather-skinned men sat slumped on the stoops of the city-funded Methadone Center. Sherrie's step quickened; she yanked at the bill of her cap with one delicate hand, while the other delved into her pants pocket to finger the metallic rectangle that was her only weapon-a mini-Polaroid camera.
"Hey, boy . . . how's 'bout a match for a vet. . . huh?" Out of the corner of a wide blue eye, Sherrie caught the slurred movement of a toothless, bedraggled creature rising to his feet, with one arm extended ready to grab her!
"S-sorry . . . I.. . " Lithe legs scissored to catch the green walk light. "You fuckin' little cock whore bastar' . . . " he grumbled after her, filling the air with the street's filth.
Sherrie shuddered. The indecency of it all! What turn of fate erased these creatures' pride, to allow themselves to fall to this level! The reporter in Sherrie made some quick deductions as she ducked into an alleyway outside of the Peep Show Palace whose name had to be a joke, she thought, again fingering the camera in her pocket.
Trash cans, turned over by winos in search of nutrition to fill their wine-sodden gullets, littered the alleyway.
Abruptly, Sherrie's hand flew to her mouth and her eyes bugged blue. Somebody was hiding between the trash cans!
A thick-ankled foot appeared like the head of a curious snake from between the cans, wagging back and forth to gain momentum. Then came the ragged hem of a dress, an alcohol bloated body and the face of a woman, a typical San Francisco 'bag lady', who'd found herself a ray of sunshine between the reflective metal of the trash cans.
Take a few pictures and get out of here, Sherrie's better sense railed. Hugging close to the Peep Show Palace's alley side wall, Sherrie surreptitiously drew the camera out of the dark depths of her pocket and cautiously raised it to eye level. Snap . . . a shot of the pawn shop across the street.. . a good place to station a mini-cam. Snap . . . the diagonal length of the Palace, marked by two dirty windows overlooking the alley . . . a perfect window onto the goings-on of Shaker Jones.
Her mouth warmed with the taste of imminent success . . . one window away from the heroin dealer, child molesting criminal!
Fuckin' dirty, messy business . . . Carter was grumbling, wiggling the toilet's rusted handle irritatedly. Finally, it flushed. "Fuckin' dump . . . "
His mood hovered somewhere between anger and somnambulant depression. Maybe the junk did that to him. You needed some kind of escape, he rationalized clumsily, when you dip your soul in the hellish business of kidnapping young kids and forcing them into perverted sex acts before a camera's asexual eye.
It all started when he met up with Shaker after his parole. To run heroin, you needed a solid cash base; down payment on a business, you might call it. Kind of a sophisticated business, he quipped inwardly to himself, over viewing the sordid procedure. They paid a printer a helluva lot of bucks to whip together the glossies and distribute them out of a reputable book distributorship.
Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he opened the rusted medicine cabinet to rattle a couple aspirin into his black palm. Throwing back his head, he tossed them down and wedged his woolly head in the shaving cream encrusted sink to suck a stream of water from the faucet.
Was it his imagination, depression of shooting H? His nostrils itched from the scent of trouble. Carter held out his hands and watched them shake. Pinprick pupils stared aback at him in the mirror. His skin felt tight, of a sudden, as if his body wanted to break loose of its identity. A hand reached down to cup his genitals . . . and he thought of Daisy.
Shaker had no right to come down on her like that. If it weren't for Daisy there'd be no cover for the operation. Hell of a mouth, though, continued the stream of conscience panging thoughts. Tha' lady sho' do know how to suck cock.. . .
Abruptly a rattle of trash cans in the alley sent him flying to the window, nose pressed to the dirt smudged glass. A drunken female wino lay between the trash cans and a slight bodied young boy.. . .
Was that a boy?
Carter squinted and rubbed his eyes. The lithe bodied creature looked scared as a turkey on Thanksgiving eve. Shading his light-sensitive eyes with a shakey palm, Carter studied the boy's slender shoulders draped in an oversized jacket and the crisp, clean trousers and spotless tennis shoes.
"Pigs sendin' out kids to spy on us, the fuckers!" he muttered to himself, feeling blood gush to his nostrils and adrenalin shooting through his veins.
A back door of the apartment opened onto the alleyway, and that's where Carter slunk. Nimbly, his fingers worked at the latch, slowly pulling back the lock. Carter squinted against the light, jaw muscles meshing, body ready to spring. His eyes raked over the lithe creature, catching sight of the honey blonde hair tucked under the cap.
"Fuckers think they're so clever.. .cocksucking assholes!" he thought.
He pumped his black fists, ground teeth together, and pounced on his prey.
"Ahhhhh!" Sherrie shrieked. A salty tasting hand clamped over her mouth, arm locked under her chin, dragging her backwards. Drawing back her elbow, she rammed him hard as she could. She felt her crazy bone gouge into the soft sac of his testicles and felt, too, the arm tighten viselike under her dimpled chin.
"Uaggltfih . . . " she sputtered, tearing at his arms with red-tipped nails. Carter gritted his teeth and tightened his hold, feeling the air hungry lungs pant with need. "I . . . can . . . can't breathe . . . I . . . please. . . . "
"Snooping bastard.. . . "
The heels of her tennis shoes bumped along the steps, making it impossible for Sherrie to get a footing. Deeper into darkness he dragged her, tightening his grip until stars flickered before her eyes. Red fingertips went numb.. . and the world went black for Sherrie Williams.
He tossed her on the rumpled bed, like a sack of potatoes, with a jarring force that sent the tweed hat flying. Carter stood panting. Instantly he blinked, squinted and scratched his head.
Swirls of honey hair, glistening like an angel's, tumbled about Sherrie's shoulders. A fugvtive beam of sunlight played over the softness. Slowly it came to him.
"The fuckin' kid's a woman . . . " Police department decoy? A crease of very real concern wrinkled Carter's brow. He bent over the figure, his face breaking into an expression mirroring a mixture of awe, delight and consternation.
Wheezing noises hissed from Sherrie's swollen throat. With painful, languid movements, she struggled to raise her bruised body off the foul smelling sheets with their sneezing scent of unwashed sex. The effort overwhelmed her and defeated, she slumped back in fear and pain, rolling over onto her back.
Carter squinted down at the high cheek bones, the wide set eyes and fresh, virginal skin framed by tons of swirling blonde hair. Nimbly his fingers worked at the buttons of her cotton shirt, opening one by one until the white, untainted lace of her brassiere peeked through the flap. Urgently, he slipped the suspenders down over the slope of feminine shoulders and lifting each arm, peeled off the jacket sleeve and shirt with it.
A gallon of blood rushed to Carter's groin, bloating his testicles hurtfully. Satin soft skin, so creamy you wanted to dip a spoon into it, made him grin in awkward disbelief. Hot, black fingers tore at the zipper of her trousers. He yanked them down, pulled them off her legs and tossed them to the floor.
The abrupt movement made Sherrie's eyes blink open with the rapacity of flashing traffic lights. "Ahhh. . . " One leg shot out to jab the hovering black man in the groin. The shot was well aimed. One delicate foot with deceptively steely strength, caught Carter between the legs. He howled in pain, gnashing his teeth, and. . . .
Whack!
"You fuckin' white bitch . . . I'll show you. . . ! "
Stars sprinkled before Sherrie's eyes as a sledge hammer fist caught her elegant cheekbone. A whimper of pain bubbled from her rosy lips.
Carter panicked. Sweat beaded his brow. Shaker and Jarvis were due back any second. His black fists drew up into tight balls of tension. He slammed a fist into the wall, cursed, and swung around to stare at the captured female lying lifelessly on the bed.
Voices in the storefront made his heart flutter. Shaker would be furious. It had been his responsibility to lure some scummy eight-year old, some hookie-playing, hungry kid from the projects . . . and instead, here lies a scrumptious, firm-bodied woman who, from all appearances could have been Marilyn Chambers herself! That changed the complexion entirely.