A BREATH
OF SPRING
Playing good Samaritan got Dave Harding
more than he bargained for when he
came to the assistance of a young
beat-up prostitute.
Copyright 2011 by Leslie F. “Buzz” Harcus
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review or samples provided by eBook vendors.
Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-1-4524-7866-1
Sandhill Publishing
Harcus, Leslie F.
10385 Twin Lake Road N.E.
Mancelona, MI 49659
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover and layout design by Harcus
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to my wife, Barbara, and to computer wizards
Mike and Rhonda Allen who showed this author there’s more
to computers than just typing.
BACK COVER
A BREATH OF SPRING
Early spring in New York; warming days and cool nights. Banjoist, Dave Harding, having finished a gig at Maxies with a Dixieland band, was walking to get fresh air in his lungs. He had no intention of being a good Samaritan, but it happened when he discovered a girl lying unconscious in an alley. On rolling her over he recognized her at once: the pushy, garishly dressed young prostitute who had accosted him earlier that night. She was bloody and badly beaten. To hell with her; walk away. Yet, she reminded him of his daughter when she was hit by a drunk driver. Dave tried to get the girl to go to a hospital but she refused, staggered away and collapsed. Against his better judgment, he loaded her and his banjo in a taxi and headed for his apartment. She awoke nasty. Controlling his temper, he fed her, said she could spend the night, even have his bed. Morning found her gone along with his new expensive clock-radio. A short time later he caught up with her in the park, only she was on a gurney being placed in an ambulance. A cop asked if anyone knew her; Dave said yes. Bad move. At the hospital a doctor said she’s lucky to be alive, someone gave her an overdose, enough to kill her. She’ll need at least a month to recover. Dave offered to help her. Another bad move. The first couple weeks proved testy, but they found common ground to communicate: he’s a writer, she wrote for her school paper. As she healed, her natural beauty began to show through. Dave warned himself; she’s here to heal -- hands off! And who wanted her dead?
A Breath of Spring is the fourth novel by author, Leslie F. “Buzz” Harcus. A Marine Corps veteran, Buzz honed his writing skills in business, public health and media relations. His first two novels, China Marine: Tsingtao Treasure and Tainted Treasure have been widely received. His third novel Web of Greed, newly out, is now available on e-readers. Retired, Buzz and his wife, Barbara, live in northern Michigan.
SANDHILL PUBLISHING
A Breath of Spring
by Buzz Harcus
Chapter 1
It was late afternoon when the yellow sports car with a U-Haul trailer wheeled off Highway 25 south of Raton onto a blacktop road, then another twenty minutes before it turned again, this time onto a winding gravel road. Purple lupines, Mexican Goldpoppies and other colorful spring flowers dappled the sunny landscape: spring in New Mexico, rebirth, life begins again.
Dave Harding felt excitement tugging at him, a feeling of coming home. His pale blue eyes took in the landscape, the hills and distant mountains. Home. It was almost too good to believe. Several miles later he turned his Mercedes convertible onto an obscure drive that wended further into the rugged hills. The car was what his friends had laughingly called his mid-life crisis.
Coming around a small bluff, a grin broke across his weathered face; there it was, his new house, his new home. It looked better in person than the many pictures he'd received from the builder back in New York, even better than he had first visualized it so many years ago.
Easing to a stop in the circle drive fronting the house, he shut off the engine and sat silently, his eyes roaming over the sprawling ranch-style house with its strong Spanish motif. A myriad of thoughts flooded his mind. How long ago had he started planning the house? It was a dream shared with Jean Daniels back in high school, fifty acres of scrub land on the side of a foot hill bought with the money from his first novel. They had sat on the warm ground that late spring day so long ago, toasted the occasion with a couple of beers swiped from his folks refrigerator, and talked about their future: love-struck teens talking about the house they'd build one day. It'd be a rambling one-story ranch house capturing the warm earth tones of the surrounding New Mexico landscape, a place where he could pursue his writing, where they could raise a family, and one day retire to enjoy the rest of their days together. And then they kissed, had made love.
But the dream never materialized. Jean was pregnant. A hasty marriage, then off to fight in Vietnam. On coming home he’d had to get a job, then job changes, more kids and bills, and the years suddenly flew by. No writing the great American novel. The death of Danny, their youngest boy, an eighteen year old Marine, shattered them. Jean never recovered. Her sudden death in their twenty-first year of marriage left a deep void in his life. Since the funeral his life changed. No longer was he shelling out money for his two older grubbing kids; they were on their own now. One day he had, literally, escaped, running away to New York to pursue his dream and a new life. The fifty acres? No; he’d never give them up.
Success came over time but there was no one to share it with. His kids could care less about the old man, never bothered to call or look him up. And then, a few weeks ago this crazy kid came into his life.
Beside Jean, she was the only other female who ever wormed her way into his heart to the point where he seriously considered marriage. But he didn't. She was too young. Too young for this old country boy. Love couldn't overcome the age difference. She'd find another guy, a younger guy, he was sure of that.
Thoughts of her had flip-flopped through his mind as he sped across the country from New York. A CD by the Four Freshmen didn't help either as he listened to "It's a Blue World Without You", "Route 66", "Day by Day", and "Unforgettable." In his mind he recalled the things he loved about her, the silly things and the nutty things. His feelings for her had peaked as he sped along the Ohio Turnpike. Just west of Toledo he had an overpowering urge to turn the car northward on I-75 toward Detroit, to find her, to beg her to marry him.
Mile after mile crossing Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska and Colorado he found himself smiling, or laughing out loud recalling something she had said, had done, or a moment they had shared. Passing motorists probably wondered about his sanity. God, how he wanted to tell her he loved her, but it was the age difference he kept telling himself, the age difference -- and now she was gone.
As he gazed at his dream house he realized starting over would be hard, especially alone. Tammie would have loved the place. The nut! He laughed. His mind flashed back to that volatile incident that threw them together only a few short weeks ago.
Chapter 2
"Hey! Hey Mister! Hey YOU!
Dave Harding slowed his pace glancing around until his eyes came to rest on the young girl. She was standing in the edge of the alley looking at him. He looked around; she must have meant someone else. He looked back. She was still looking at him.
"Me?" he gestured at himself.
"Yeah. You." She gave him a toothy smile hideously exaggerated by her gaudy use of bright red lipstick. "You look unhappy," she said. "C'mon over here in the alley. I can make you happy. Try me, you'll see."
"Oh, fer Chris'sakes," Dave snapped shaking his head. He turned away quickening his pace, moving hurriedly down the street into the gathering New York dusk. A damned young, snotnose hooker trying to pick me up, he snorted. I'm old enough to be her old man, and then some! He could feel the irritation prickling at the hairs on the back of his neck, could feel anger rising inside him, a tautness to the set of his jawline. Damned little whore!
"Hey, I'm serious," came her brash voice as she rushed forward falling in stride with him. "I can make an old man like you tingle. I can do all kinds of magical things for you, bring your ‘willey’ back to life. Might even add another twenty years to your life."
Dave glanced down at her: skinny bottled blonde, red lipstick layered thickly on her lips, dark eyes ringed by garish green, wearing a smirky grin, and a damned mini-skirted outfit so short and so tight around her ass that it left little to the imagination. Pathetic, he thought. Pathetic! Hell, she can't be more than seventeen -- eighteen at the most. He turned away, ignoring her, shaking his head. I don't see how those damned pimps get young girls like her hooked into prostitution, he fumed.
"What about it old man?" she persisted.
"Get lost, kid!" he snapped not breaking stride.
"C'mon. You can help a poor working girl out...ya' know, I gotta eat, too!" she retorted, still in stride.
"Get another job."
"Hey...sex makes the world go 'round. Everybody enjoys it. Don't you?"
"No...and I'd especially not enjoy it with you. Now get lost or I'll call a cop." The damned little trollop, and no cop in sight he noted, glancing about. Where the hell are they when you need one?
"C'mon, pops! For you I'll make a bargain deal. Thirty bucks. Okay? Get the rust out of your pipe. Right?"
"I said beat it. Does your old man know your out whoring the streets?" People passing were giving the couple a second glance, just what he didn't need. Dave grimaced.
"Hell yes. He's the one who put me here. That's why I need tricks like you -- it keeps my old man happy; he keeps me happy! Hey. Tell ya' what! Got a better bargain for you. Twenty bucks. Okay?"
"Go screw yourself, kid!" he snapped angrily.
Stopping abruptly at the curb, he looked quickly up and down 46th street, then, clutching tightly to his banjo case, he headed across dodging traffic. Maxie's place was just down the block.
"You old fart!" she yelled after him. She stood at the edge of the curb, hands cupped to her mouth. "You'll never know what you missed out on! You old fart!"
"Bitch!" Dave called over his shoulder.
"Old fart! Old fart! Old fart!" she screamed after him.
"Whore!" he retorted stepping onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. She gave him the finger. "You old fart! You probably ain't had one in years. Probably forgot how to use it!"
Dave turned away from her. It was childish to lower himself to arguing with a gutter whore. He was further embarrassed at seeing people staring at him, amused. He glanced down at his watch. It was almost eight o'clock. If he hurried he had enough time for a quick beer and a cheeseburger before the band started playing at 8:30.
He jogged along the sidewalk clutching his banjo case even tighter. The damned little whore, he fumed, singling him out, ridiculing him. The bitch! He tried to calm down; he didn't need the added stress. Forget it, he told himself. She's just a whore...just a damned snotnosed whore! You got the best of her, took her down a peg or two, he told himself. She'll starve tonight. The damned bitch. He glanced up; he was at Maxie's joint.
Jauntily, he skipped down the seven steps to Maxie's hole in the wall, as he was prone to call it. He didn't need the job but it was better than sitting home alone pacing the floor looking at the damned computer, the printer and the stack of untouched plain white paper, and straining his brain for that unique story lead for the article he was working on.
Yet, each day of late, regular as clockwork, he'd stop for several moments to remember, reflecting, wondering if he could have changed his life earlier, enough so it might have been better for him and Jean, even for the kids. But it was five years too late, five years since his beloved wife had died, five years since he'd last seen his kids, five years in which they had written him off, five years in which he had reached success in New York, had become a recognized author and writer -- but with no one to share success with.
He jerked the massive door open just as a couple of happy hour patrons stumbled out the door. "Ohhh..." one of them slurred, "banjo music tonight, huh?"
"That's right. We start playing at 8:30. C'mon back later and bring your girlfriends," Dave enthused. "Love to have you."
"We're just in town through tonight...conference on fund raising, ya' know..." the other grinned through bleary eyes.
"Maybe we can get us a couple of gals from the conference," the other chirped, then hiccupped. "We'll be back..."
"Whatever. We play 'till one o'clock. Ragtime, middle-of-the road and a little country western. You'll like it."
"Great...see ya' later Mister banjo man..." They stumbled up the steps and disappeared as Dave started inside. He smiled; another set of Maxie's happy customers.
He shouldered his way through the crowded, smoke-filled bar, nodding to several regular customers, patted his favorite waitress, Hattie, on her ample posterior, to which she responded, "Hi, Dave, honey. You're usual?" without bothering to look up, and he disappeared through a beaded curtain into the back stage area.
"Hi, Dave," thin, bespectacled Karl Johnson quipped looking up from where he was taking his clarinet from it's case. "Almost thought you weren't going to make it tonight."
"Aw, I got slowed down by traffic. Friday night and the traffic is terrific as usual. Everybody leaving town. I finally left my cab and walked over. I made better time, too, as a matter of fact."
"Well, at least your here and ready to go.”
"Dave Harding!" came the booming voice of Bill Ruskin, their rotund erstwhile leader. "Glad you showed up. I've already told the other guys about a slight change in our program tonight. It seems our fearless benefactor --" There was a moment of silence as they bowed their heads. "-- the man who signs our paychecks every week --" There was another moment of silence accompanied by snickers. "-- Maxie, just got back from Houston today and he's nuts about the Texas two-step and wants us to play that kind of crap. Do you know any of it?"
Dave scratched at his chin. "Shit, Bill, I can't recall a two-step from a fox-trot. Hell. Play 'Yellow Rose of Texas' and 'Rose of San Antone' in a different beat and he'll never know the difference. Christ, he can't remember what he's said from one minute to the next anyways."
"Well, I kinda thought, seein' as how you're from Texas, you'd know all that kind of music ."
"Hold it! I'm from God's country! Raton, New Mexico. Prettiest spot in the whole damned country," Dave corrected with feigned shock. "Screw Texas!"
"Okay! Okay! I've heard your spiel about New Mexico before. Get off your damned soapbox," Bill retorted laughing. "We all got the message." Leaning forward, he looked deep into Dave's face as though he was searching for something.
"What is it?" Dave asked. "Have I got ketchup on my face?"
"No. I look at you and I wonder how the hell an old fart of a banjo player like you ever ended up in New York -- and a real klutz at that."
Dave's response was immediate, a wet Bronx cheer.
"You tell 'em, Dave," Karl interjected. "Someday Bill will be forty-five and then he'll know how it feels to be old and decrepit, too."
"Screw you...the both of you," Dave grinned. "What is this? Get Dave Harding night? First some snotnose hooker tries to pick me up over on 46th -- even calls me an old fart -- and now you two. Christ! So I'm forty five...that doesn't make me an antique. I'm just as capable as ever...just plug away at it a little longer, that's all."
His comment brought a guffaw of laugher from the two. "C'mon, Karl," Bill said, "We've got to get ready to entertain." Snickering, they walked away leaving Dave with his banjo. "And for your information," Dave called after them, "I'll be heading out to God's country pretty soon now. My house is almost finished."
Setting his banjo case across the arms of a chair, Dave snapped the case open. Reaching inside, he picked up his banjo, a gold-plated Richelieu Golden Eagle plectrum. He took a soft cloth and rubbed the strings and neck. It had taken two years of saving, salting away his mad money, cutting back on lunches and more just to save for this one special banjo. It was a beautiful instrument with an ornately carved neck, beautifully inlaid fingerboard and with a large eagle carved on the back. But it was the tone that had first captured him; the best tone of any banjo he'd every played.
Ray Kemper came bustling through the door shouldering his guitar case. "Boy, the natives are restless tonight. You can tell it's Friday night by the elevated level of noise out in the bar room. Wonder how many of 'em will miss their train back to Long Island." He laughed.
"Everyone decent?"
Hattie stuck her head through the doorway, eyes as big as saucers. Her smile turned sour at seeing all were dressed. "Damn, missed my chance again," she quipped.
"We'll strip down for you," Ray snapped, reaching for his belt buckle.
"Cool it, guitar man. You ain't got nothin' I ain't never seen before. Besides, I got Dave's order here: beer and cheeseburger."
Dave laughed. "How the hell did you know I wanted a beer and cheeseburger? I didn't even put in an order."
"You patted my ass," she retorted sweetly.
"A pat on the butt is an automatic beer and cheeseburger order?"
"Honestly, Dave," she chuckled, "For the last six months you've come through the bar, patted my behind and ordered a beer and cheese burger. Tonight's just like any other night 'cept you didn't call out your order."
Dave grinned at the attractive older blonde woman with the mirthful blue eyes. "It's what I wanted, though."
"Seven bucks, wiseguy."
"Put it on my tab."
"Hah! Since when did Maxie ever let a musician run a tab?"
Dave snorted and pulled out his billfold. He handed her a ten spot. "Got change?"
Hattie set the beer and burger down, took the ten spot and stuffed it in her bra. "We'll talk about your change later. I figure the pat on the ass was worth at least three."
"Aw...c'mon..." Dave replied sourly. Then a sly smile crossed his face. "What'll it cost for the whole body?"
Hattie winked. "You couldn't afford it. Besides, you remind me of my dear old father."
"Now that hurts!" Dave snapped lunging for her.
Letting out a whoop, Hattie dashed for the doorway with Dave two steps behind. "Oops!" they yelped as they almost bumped into Maxie.
"What th' hell?" Maxie exclaimed as Dave grabbed him, steadying the man. "Sorry," Dave said. "We were just having a friendly conversation --"
"Yeah?" Maxie scowled, taking a drag on his cigar. "What th' hell's with you musicians anyways, always chasing after my help? Can't you wait till after hours? I've got customers who need to be served first, " he added dryly.
"Tah! Tah!" Hattie chirped with a wink and disappeared. Dave glared after her departing figure. She must have sensed he was looking for she turned and blew him a kiss, then continued back to the bar.
"Okay, fellas, I need your attention for a couple of minutes," Maxie called out, motioning for all the musicians to gather about him. He waited for them, running a beefy hand through his greying hair, his unsmiling eyes seemingly checking each musician. "Fellas, this is a special night. We've got a big crowd out there, a lot of big spenders. So, let's give 'em some music to enjoy. Okay? What ya' say? Oh...and did youse guys whip up some of that Texas two step stuff?"
"Yeah," Bill quipped, a broad grin crossing his face. "Ol' Dave's from out west somewhere. He knows that stuff forward and backwards. He'll give us the beat."
Dave grimaced, throwing a dirty look at Bill, but just as quickly his face broke into a nodding grin as Maxie glanced at him. "You know this kind of music, huh?" Maxie asked.
"Yeah. Oh, sure, yeah..." Dave nodded assuringly with a shrug of his shoulders. "Don't worry, Maxie. We'll get it off good for you."
"Good...good..." Maxie chortled. "There's this Miss Texas...uh...something or other -- she won some contest -- anyways, she's coming here tonight and I want to knock her pants off with some good old home-style music."
"You're a dirty old man, Maxie," Bill chided. "Wanting to knock some gal's pants off...tch...tch..."
"Ahh! You guys are the dirty ones. I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I just wanna surprise her with some good old Texas music. That's all."
"Sure, Maxie, we understand. Don't we, fellas?" Bill looked around at the rest of the musicians, all grinning, all nodding their heads in unison. "See. We believe you, Maxie."
Maxie grinned sheepishly. "Well, I'll admit she's built for action...and the thought has crossed my mind, but -- no. She's a special guest tonight so I want to make her really feel at home. Okay?"
"Okay. We'll do our best to make her feel at home," Bill replied. "You can count on us."
"Bill Ruskin and the Ragtime Ramblers" began playing promptly at 8:30 p.m. The crowd was with them from the first note, cheering, clapping, noisily singing along almost drowning out the speakers. A few of the heartier ones got out onto the dime-sized dance floor gyrating to the music.
Chapter 3
Maxie stood to one side, an ever present smile on his face, chomping on his fat cigar and tapping his foot to the music. His eyes roamed the crowd, the waiters and waitresses quick to provide service under the scrutiny of their boss. Happy faces, happy people is what Maxie wanted.
Dave scanned the crowd. They were into their second set and still no Texas queen. But then, what with western garb the in-thing now, and a lot of the crowd dressed in western garb, it would be hard to say which one of the bouncing beauties was the real Texas queen. He laughed, continuing to strum his banjo, now in the second playing of "Alabamy Jubilee."
His eyes went beyond Bill, who was banging away at the piano, to see Hattie standing at the edge of the dance floor. Her uniform was low-cut exposing considerable cleavage. Hattie winked at him and caressed the top of her right breast, the location of his ten spot. Dave stuck his tongue out at her. She blew him a kiss. He hit a clinker and quickly glanced down at his strings.
Old enough to be her father, huh? Then why the hell had she been trying to get him in bed for the past six months? Nice girl, nice personality, little brassy but damned nice body. Just not his cup of tea. But then, there was no one special in his life, not now.
Halfway through the third set Miss Texas Whatever and her entourage waltzed through the front door. There was no doubt that Miss Texas had arrived by the look of excitement on Maxie's face and the way he dashed the length of the bar to greet her. She was tall, buxom, with tousled blonde hair that cascaded down to her trim waist. A cowboy hat was perched on the back of her head and her large blue eyes took in everything at a glance. Her eyes sparkled, her face lighting up in a warm Texas smile that showed even white teeth. She looked as though she’d been poured into a pair of tight, white designer jeans. And the material of her plaid blouse was stretched taut across an ample bosom.
Maxie swept her into his arms and she melted against him, planting a long, moving kiss right smack on his lips. When they parted, she made no move to step away, rather pressing against him, almost a part of him.
Nice, Dave thought of the Texas beauty, not bad at all. He was surprised at usually somber-faced Maxie grinning like a kid and making such a fuss over her. Turning to Bill he called for "Song of Old San Antone." After a moment of panicked confusion, the band picked up on the tempo and they played the song with gusto as though they had rehearsed it many times.
The blonde beamed. Maxie beamed. The crowd went wild. Dave laughed. Who gives a rat's ass, he thought. At least they're all having fun. The dance floor filled with bouncing bodies. "Yee-hahs!" echoed across the smoke-filled room. The band laughed and continued playing. What the hell, as long as they ate it up, who cares.
When the set was done, Maxie ushered the blonde up to the stage and introduced her to the band. "Fellas, this is Miss Texas...uh...dammit. I forgot it again," he apologized to the statuesque blonde.
"Close enough, Maxie," she laughed. "Close enough."
As the band members closed in to shake her hand and get a better look at the beauty, Dave stood back watching. He had to admit she was a looker. "Golly, you guys sounded just great," she said enthusiastically. "Just the way I remember it from home."
Maxie stood behind her beaming, his smile stretching ear to ear, rubbing his beefy hands together, nodding. "See. I told ya' they knew how to play Texas music," he chirped.
"Kinda made me homesick for a minute there," Miss Texas Whatever said in a syrupy western drawl.
Dave shook hands with her then proceeded to wash his throat clear of tobacco smoke with the remaining swallow of warm beer. Dammit, but he hated warm beer. He glanced over toward the bar, caught the bartender's eye, and raised the empty bottle for a fresh cold brew. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was almost one o'clock. Good. They'd be done soon.
As Maxie turned to talk to one of his customers, Karl, being his usual horny self, moved in on Miss Texas Whatever putting his arm around her waist, his hand sliding down coming to rest on one well rounded buttock. Dave watched to see what kind of reception Karl would get from her. She wasn't as loaded as most females he picked up at closing time, a time when he usually scored pretty well.
Dave almost fell off his stool when he heard her response. "Get your hand off my ass or I'll break every one of your damned fingers," she said in a quiet, steely voice, the profanity spewing out between those beautiful ruby-red lips. All the while, the smile stayed pasted on her face. Flabbergasted, Karl removed his hand as though he'd touched a red-hot poker.
Still smiling, Miss Texas Whatever turned her back to Karl, slipped her arm through Maxie's arm, and pressed warmly against him.
Covering his mouth so Karl wouldn't hear his snickering, Dave couldn't help but relish the moment. The stud, the answer to every lonely woman's problem, was cut down, cruelly castrated by an expert.
Just a high priced whore, Dave decided. She knows who her sugar daddy is and what he can do for her -- and Maxie was an ideal pigeon. He had money, a good business, lots of influential connections and another bar and home in Fort Lauderdale. Yep, there was no doubt she knew how to pick a sugar daddy. She was fawning over Maxie, whispering in his ear, smiling at him, talking intently, searching his eyes with hers, and he was enjoying every minute of it.
Probably the most popular female on campus at "Whatever State University," Dave thought. Probably only had sex twice: the football team and the basketball team. Dave smiled wanly at the thought, her as the center of attraction at a gang bang. He'd seen a lifetime of queens like her come and go. She'd end up working in New York, Miami, Dallas, Houston or Las Vegas until one day she'd be burned out -- and tossed out. Well, at least she wasn’t his responsibility.
"Okay band!" Bill called trying to get their attention above the crowd noise. "Last song. Oh Lord It's Hard to be Humble. Okay, and a one and a two..." and the band cut loose with full participation of all the inebriated barroom singers.
"Give ya' one last chance to get your three bucks back," Hattie said coming into the dressing room where Dave was putting his banjo back in its case. "See me home and I'll even fix you up with a nightcap."
Dave glanced up at her hoping the feeling of tiredness didn't show in his face. "Hattie, your timing is lousy," he sighed. "I'm really beat. It's been a bad week, a bad day and, unfortunately, I don't have any strong pruient feelings or licentious thoughts at the moment." Then, sensing he had hurt her, he winked and raised his index finger. "However, I have had any number of pruient thoughts about you in the past if that helps any."
Hattie wore an embarrassed smile. With a shrug of her shoulders, she said, "At least you had some dirty thoughts about me. It shows you still got life in you. One of these days we'll get together and make fun sounds. You'll like it. I'm pretty good if I do say so myself. For you I'll make it a special night."
"I'd like that. I just couldn't do you justice tonight and I wouldn't want you to think I was a lousy lover."
"Dammit, Dave, I am serious. You'll see." She reached inside her bra and extracted the ten spot. "Here," she said handing him the money. "Here's your money. The beer and burger were my treat tonight."
"Hey! No! The money's for the food. I buy my own food." He pushed her hand away.
"Dammit! I said it was my treat," she countered. "Put the bill in your shorts. Having been by my boobs should give you a little twinge of inspiration."
"Dammit, Hattie. You're a dirty young woman. How old are you anyways?"
"Thirty-two and twice divorced. Just couldn't find a man who could satisfy me." She fluttered her eyelids. "I've been told older men are better. That's what I want to find out for myself."
"Sheeeiiittt..." Dave grinned. "I'm gonna come knocking on your door one of these days and we'll see...we'll just see..." He picked up his banjo case. "Keep the ten for my down payment on a good time," he said brushing past her.
"I'll keep the bill next to my heart," she called after him as she slipped the bill back into the cleavage between her breasts. With a sigh of resignation, she turned back to the barroom and the tiresome task of shushing and pushing the last of the drunks out the door.
Chapter 4
The night air was cool and refreshing after the heat and foul smoke of the barroom. Dave took in several deep breaths trying to clean the stale air from his lungs. He shivered, it had dropped to the low thirties last night, enough to cover the city with a light coating of frost. He took another deep breath. There it was, that faint smell of spring in the air even though slightly tinged with pollution; it was still the smell of spring.
Back home it was one of the prettiest times of the year. The barren landscape came alive, bursting forth with desert flowers in bloom, animals coming out of hibernation, rattlers coiling on warm flat rocks sunning themselves.
He looked down the street at the dazzling lights of the city, listening to the cacaphony of sounds. One day, and not too far away now, he'd be heading home, leaving all this behind with no regrets. The fifty acres of rugged land was all he really wanted, a chance to get away, a chance for solitude: to write, to paint, to photograph and to enjoy. The Spanish-styled ranch house would soon be done and then he could kiss the Big Apple goodbye and go home. Hell, he grinned, it'd be fun to go into town on Saturday nights in his old pick-up truck, play a few licks on the banjo, quaff down a few brews with the "good old boys" and enjoy life.
He started off down the street at a brisk pace tightly clenching the handle of his banjo case. He'd skip the taxi tonight, give him a chance to think, lord knows there was enough to accomplish in the next few weeks: finishing the article on New Orleans, the breaking publicity of his new novel, finalizing plans for the move to his new home in New Mexico, and the kids. Why the hell didn't they contact him? There was no doubt that they understood he wasn't chasing after them anymore. They were free, well-beyond twenty-one, and they could make their own way in life. With mom dead now, by god, they were on their own and he was pursuing a new life; his life.
Besides, why rush back to the old brownstone apartment and stare at the walls and ceilings of the furnished apartment: one bedroom, living room, combination dining room and kitchenette and single bathroom -- and the demanding computer.
"Boring! Boring! Boring!" he said aloud.
He rubbed his eyes. The smoke had hung like a heavy blanket across the barroom. The ventilation system was probably kaput again. Maybe he'd stop at an all night drugstore and pick up a bottle of eye drops to wash out his eyes and stop the burning and itching.
Crossing the street, dodging late night traffic, he stepped up on the curb and continued walking, keeping an eye peeled for any unusual signs, any cluster of toughs, possible muggers. As he passed an alley he heard a noise. He glanced into the darkness, at the same time moving defensively toward the curb. He could see nothing. He was about to continue when he heard the sound again. It was a moan, a pitiful, catching moan. He listened. There it was again. Then he saw what it was; a huddled form crumpled in the darkness just inside the alley opening.
His first inclination was to turn and walk away. Don't get involved. Yet, his prior police training and emergency medical training caused him to stop. It looked like a woman lying in the shadows next to a brick wall. She moaned again. Dave moved quickly to her side, knelt and rolled her over. Her face was bloodied, eyes swollen, barely slits. Suddenly he recognized who it was, the young hooker! “Damn!” he swore.
Leave her, he told himself starting to rise. She's no good, nothing but a damned whore. But as he looked down at her bruised, battered face, he saw the image of his daughter, Sharon, the way she lay crumpled and bloody that day the truck had hit her. No. He had to help.
"You okay?" Dave asked shaking her, one of the first things he had learned in EMS training when coming to the aid of an unconscious person.
A gasping groan came in response. Her eyes flared open momentarily through the puffiness, hands suddenly rushing to her face in a protective movement. "Please..." she gasped, "Don't hit me again...please...I'll make the money...honest...I'll make it up to you..."
"Hey, take it easy. I don't know who beat you up but I'm here to help," Dave assured her. He eased her to a sitting position, pulling her short skirt down over her exposed thighs. "C'mon, let me help you to your feet. Can you stand?"
"Yeah...I guess so..." she managed as he pulled her to her feet. Tears of pain streaked her bloodied cheeks. She stood shakily, weaving, finally leaning back against the rough alley wall for support. She pulled a wrinkled hanky from her pocket and dabbed at her face, gasping as the material scraped across raw skin. "Just gimme a minute...I'll be okay..."
"Hey, Man! Leave dat bitch alone!" a voice boomed.
Dave swung around facing a tall, dapperly dressed black who stood spread-legged at the edge of the alley glaring at him.
"I said ta' leave dat bitch alone! I jus' taught her a lesson she won't forget...ever! If' she's workin' for me, she's gotta get out and hustle that dead white ass of hers. No bitch's gonna work fer me who don't earn her keep!" He moved into the alley toward them. "Leave the bitch alone and get the hell out of here, Whitey. She don't need no help from you!"
"She's in bad shape. She needs medical attention," Dave retorted, sudden anger prickling at the back of his neck. Warily, he stepped back keeping his eyes on the man, keeping his banjo case between himself and the black who had started smacking his right fist into his left hand.
"Who the hell are you...some kind of doctor? he spat. “She ain't going to no hospital...not on my time."
"No...no...I'll be okay..." the girl cried in a halting, trembling voice. "He's right... I ain't been earning my keep. I'll do better, LeRoy," she said looking at her pimp. "Honest...I just gotta rest for a couple of days...that's all...just rest for a couple of days..." She slumped back against the rough brick wall of the building clutching at her stomach, her face contorted in pain.
"You ain't gonna rest on my time, bitch!" the pimp snarled. "You screwed up th' other night in front of Mr. Big. He's pissed off at me cuz of you. You cost me money. You owe me and yo' gonna get your ass out there and earn me money, ya' hear!"
Dave's anger reached the boiling point. "Hey, LeRoy, or whatever your name is, can't you see she's in bad shape. She needs medical attention, not some stupid pimp threatening her!"
"Stay out of it, Whitey! This's 'tween me an her!"
LeRoy grabbed the girl's arm and roughly shoving her toward the street. She stumbled, falling forward, her head slamming against the rough brick wall. She gave a sharp cry of pain and collapsed to her knees on the dirty alley bricks. LeRoy was on top of her just as fast, grabbing her, jerking her to her feet, shoving his anger-contorted face into her's, screaming obscenities. He slapped her hard across her face, spun her around and roughly shoved her headlong toward the street.
Dave exploded into action. In one continuous movement, he set his case down, grabbed LeRoy, swung him around and smashed his fist full into the black's face knocking him back against the building. LeRoy collapsed in a heap, startled, his nose spurting blood.
"I said leave her alone, you stupid pimp!" Dave snarled. "She needs help. Not you!"
LeRoy looked up at him, pure hatred in his eyes. He shook off the punch and scrambled to his feet, a knife snapping open in his hand, the sharp blade flashing in the cold glare of the street light. "Man, you jus' bought glory," LeRoy spat, an evil grin playing across his bloody lips. "I'se gonna cut yer belly wide open an' spill yer guts out fer th' rats..."
Feinting with his left hand, he moved a step to his side, then swung forward, the knife grasped tightly in his right hand. Dave reacted, bending backwards as the knife flashed past. With speed that even surprised him, he spun around, his right foot momentarily raised, then shooting out with a swift karate kick that smashed solidly into the black's groin.
LeRoy gasped, a scream choked in his throat as he dropped heavily to the alley floor in agonizing pain. The knife had dropped as both of his hands clutched at his numbed crotch.
Dave reached past him and picked up the knife. He examined it momentarily, then looked at the large brick wall. Smiling, he stepped forward and jammed the blade of the knife deep into a gap where the mortar had fallen out. With a quick slap of his hand, he hit the handle breaking the blade off. He threw the handle down by LeRoy, picked up his banjo case and started out of the alley looking for the girl. She was weaving unsteadily along clinging to the store fronts for support. Dave hurried after her.
"I'll get you -- both of you --" LeRoy screamed after them, standing at the edge of the alley, hunched over, still clutching his crotch. "I'll get the both of you!"
Chapter 5
"Hey...hold up...let me give you a hand!" Dave called catching up to the girl. "Let me help you --" He had started to put his arm around her waist to support her.
"Get away!" she snapped slapping at his arm. "I don't need no damned help...leave me alone...he'll kill us both..." she gasped. "He's got a bad temper...really mean...please, Mister, please let me alone..."
"No man should treat a woman the way he's treated you," Dave countered. "C'mon. I'll get you to a hospital --"
"No!" she gasped, turning on him angrily. "I ain't goin' to no damned hospital. Didn't 'cha hear him? I gotta get to work."
"But your hurt --"
"Your damned right I'm hurt -- but I'm alive! I'll make his damned money for him somehow, it's better'n being dead! Now leave me alone!"
She walked away from him, struggling along holding onto the building fronts, weaving, stopping, then struggling to move forward again.
Dave watched after her. The little snip. She needed medical attention, time to heal. Hitting the bricks to make money for an ungrateful pimp sickened him.
As she disappeared around the corner he gave a disgusted shake of his head. What guy in his right mind would want to have sex with a beat-up prostitute, no matter what her age. What kind of hold does a pimp have over a whore?
"Ahhh, to hell with her," he muttered. "Why get involved. She's just a damned whore!" He spotted a cruising taxi and hailed it. Might as well take a cab, no telling where that damned pimp might be lurking at the moment. Damn but it felt good kicking the bastard in the nuts, just what he deserved.
The cab screeched to a halt. Dave yanked the door open, called out his address, and got in. The cab sped off, turned the corner and accelerated.
"Aw shit!" Dave exclaimed. "Stop the car!"
The cabbie slammed on the brakes bringing the cab to a screeching halt. "What's the matter, buddy?" the cabbie demanded.
"She's fallen down again. Dammit!" Dave muttered pointing to the prostrate form of the girl lying on the sidewalk. "I'll take her home and get her squared away again. Damned females anyway. I told her you can't mix booze and joints. She walks into walls and falls down. Damn!"
Hopping out of the cab, Dave knelt down shaking the lifeless form. She was unconscious. Picking her up, he was surprised at how light she weighed. Shielding her face from the curious eyes of the cabbie, he eased her into the backseat. "She's stoned," he muttered. "Get us home and I'll get her cleaned up again. This time she's gonna see a psychiatrist."
"Yeah, booze and pot don't mix," the cabbie empathized as he dropped the car in gear and the cab roared off. Dave pressed the girl close to him listening, catching her erratic breathing. At least she was breathing.
At his brownstone apartment building, Dave tipped the cabbie a tenspot, then juggled the girl out of the cab while still clutching his banjo case. The cabbie twisted in his seat, watched blankly, unconcerned, slamming the door when they were clear and sped off into the night.
"And a big thank you for all your help," Dave muttered under his breath after the departing cab. He knelt, threw the girl over his shoulder fireman style, and headed for the front door. Setting his banjo case down, he flipped through his set of keys until he found the right one, opened the door, picked up his banjo case and moved inside.
"Now, if I can just get by Mrs. McKinney," he breathed as he moved silently down the hallway past his landlady's door, gasping under the added weight, although surprised at the lightness of his package. At his door, he repeated the routine with the keys, got the door open and slipped inside. Setting the banjo case to one side, he moved quickly across the living room into the bedroom where he deposited the girl gently on his bed. He stood looking down at the bloody, pathetic figure stretched out before him. Who's lost child are you, he wondered with a consoling shake of his head.
"I sure as hell hope no one saw me sneaking you inside," he muttered to himself, especially nosy old Mrs. McKinney. For a landlady, she knew more about her tenants than what was good for her -- or them.
"Okay, citizen patriot, what do you do first?" he said, taking a deep breath. At that moment she emitted a sigh that trailed off into a forlorn moan. At least she's still alive. "Might as well clean her up," he growled. "She's wearing a ton of makeup and it's got to come off."
In the bathroom he grabbed a clean washcloth and ran it under hot water, then grabbed a fresh towel and headed back to the bedroom.
Painstakingly, he gently washed the blood from her face, lightly cleaning around her eyes, forehead, cheeks and neck. Heavy makeup washed away caking conspicuously on the washcloth. It took several rinses and two towels before he had her face reasonably clean.
Finished, he cocked his head observing his handiwork. He nodded approval. The flesh around her eyes was puffy, her jaw swollen, and a big welt had raised on one cheek where the pimp had slapped her. There was a large scrape on her forehead where she had fallen against the brick wall. Yet, to his surprise, under all the goopy makeup, he found himself looking at a reasonably pretty girl, or at least she had been at one time.
"What next oh great white citizen patriot, defender of immoral womanhood?" he asked himself. "And how the hell do you get yourself so involved in things that don't concern you?"
He stood and stretched getting rid of the painful kinks he was experiencing from bending over as he cleaned her. "Dammit!" he hissed with a sense of horror. "She's lying on my bed and she's probably crawling with bed bugs and body lice -- probably infected with herpes, syphilis, gonnorhea, Aids -- the whole damned lot!" The thought made his skin crawl.
Yet, as he looked down at her, his stern complexion softened. "What did you do that pissed him off, that he did this to you?" She couldn't be any more than eighteen, if she was that old. Probably more like seventeen, most likely a runaway. What the hell kind of life did she have? Damned pimps! They sure know how to spot runaways when they hit the Big Apple: befriend them, win their confidence, buy 'em clothes, get 'em in debt, then put the screws to 'em and get them working. Poor terrified kids...burned out before they're twenty; little girl dreams of being saved by a prince charming on a white charger shattered by the realities of life, a hard, brutal life.
The girl moaned, interrupting his thoughts. He reached down and slipped off her shoes. The stench was overwhelming. Her feet were filthy, stockings shredded. Her clothing reeked of body odor and stale tobacco. When the hell did she have her last bath he wondered.
Gently, he shook her. Through bloodied slits, her eyes slowly opened. Her breath caught in her throat as his face came into sharp focus. "Hi. How ya' feeling now?" Dave asked in his friendliest bedside manner, forcing a winning smile.
"How the hell do you think I feel?" she snapped angrily. Glancing away from him she warily looking around the room. "Where the hell am I?" Her hands touched her bruised face causing her to wince. Tenderly, she moved her finger tips over the swollen flesh. "Ohh, God!" she moaned, "I hurt..." Tears brimmed in her eyes trickling away at the corners.
"Take it easy," Dave cautioned. "Your friendly pimp did a number on you. I thought he was going to kill you." Her eyes met his, searching his face. "I happened by," he continued, "you needed help and...here you are..."
"Sure," she snapped, her attitude hardening, a harsh snicker escaping her. "A good Samaritan? Bullshit! I've heard that line of crap before. Where the hell am I?" she demanded. "People don't do something for nothing!"
Dave grimaced. She was one tough cookie.
"You're here in my apartment on my bed. I brought you here because you had passed out on the street. I sure as hell didn't bring you up her for your good looks."
His reply stopped her, yet her fingers cautiously felt her clothing; everything was still intact. She glowered at him. "I wasn't born yesterday Mister Good Samaritan. I know what you're after."
"Nothing," Dave interrupted. "Right now, I'm going to draw you a hot bath. You'll probably feel a lot better after you've had a chance to soak and relax those aching muscles."
"Sure..." she spat. "First the bath, then -- "
"Hey! Don't flatter yourself!" he scowled, cutting her short. "I don't like what the jerk did to you. No woman should be treated that way." He stepped close reaching his hand out, "C'mon, I'll help you to your feet --"
"Don't touch me, you son of a bitch, or I'll scream!" she hissed. "I know how you guys operate. I'm warning you, I'll scream so loud I'll wake the whole god-damned town!"
"Look, you little shi --" Dave started, then stopped. He'd be damned if he was going to lower himself to her level. Taking a deep breath, he continued in a quiet, even voice. "All I'm doing is trying to help. Don't read anything else into it. Right now, I'm going into the bathroom and fill the tub with hot water. That's all."
He stalked out of the room more angry at himself than at the little ...yes, the little bitch! He'd have to watch his temper or he'd tell her where to head in. Keep cool...keep cool...he told himself, and don't ever play good Samaritan again!
She laid back on the bed staring at the doorframe. The old sonofabitch, she sneered. A john is a john is a john! Nobody, but nobody, helps another person nowadays, especially a whore. Nobody! Still, he hadn't done anything to her. She closed her eyes. No, she determined after a moment, he was still a dirty, perverted, stinking john.
The sound of water splashing in the tub caught her attention. The thought of relaxing in a hot tub became more appealing by the moment. Maybe it would help get rid of her aches and pains. At least it'd feel good.
She looked around the room trying to get a better idea of where she was; maybe a better idea of the john, the kind of perverse taste he had. There was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a plain bedroom with a large dark oak dresser, a matching dark oak bed, headboard and footboard. Even the bedspread was a dark bold print. There was a built-in bookcase against one wall with a wide array of books, the titles which she couldn't read from where she lay on the bed, not even squinting through the slits of her eyes. Probably all porno, she thought. In the corner was another small bookcase with a clock-radio sitting on the top shelf and several black three-ring notebooks on the two lower shelves. A similar notebook was open on a music stand just to the left of her head. A dusty old banjo was hung on one wall. Several pictures decorated the other wall: mountain and desert scenes. There was one window in the center of one wall. The shades were drawn, drapes pulled tightly shut. She shrugged. Nothing to indicate a pervert -- but then!
She tried sitting up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, gasping in pain as she forced herself erect into a sitting position. Damn LeRoy. He'd nearly killed her this time. Why the hell was he so damned mean of late? Ever since that fat pig and his twisted orgy, LeRoy had been meaner than a mad dog and the beatings were getting worse; this was the worst yet. Now she'd really have to hustle up tricks in order to get back in his good graces.
Her eyes came to rest on the washcloth on the edge of the dresser. It was bloody, caked with dirty makeup. She glanced at herself in the dresser mirror. She cringed. Is that me? Her once beautiful face was discolored, cheeks and eyes puffed out, only slits for eyes. A whimpering cry escaped her: even her mother wouldn't recognize her, not like this.
"Your bath's ready," Dave said coming back into the room, trying to keep a modicum of friendliness in his voice. "If you're ready, I'll help you into the bathroom. Then you can relax and take a nice leisurely bath. Okay?" There was no response. She sat impassively looking at him through tear-stained eyes.
"There's a nice fresh towel and washcloth in there for you and --" he began rummaging through his top dresser drawer, "you can wear this pair of pajamas. It's the best I can do for you at the moment."
"I don't need a bath," she retorted, defiant again. "I'm okay. So I had a little bad luck. Big deal. I can square it away. I just want to go home. I can make it...I'll be okay..."
"Sure. Look at yourself. Or maybe you already did?" He noticed she was seated across from the dresser mirror and had glanced at herself a couple of times since he entered the room. "He did quite a number on you. You may want to go home young lady, but at the moment, you're going to take a hot bath and get a good night's sleep. We'll see about your going home in the morning."
He didn't wait for her to protest. He pulled her to her feet and steered her toward the bathroom. "Okay...what the hell..." came her sigh of condescension.
Inside the bathroom he sat her on the toilet seat. "Okay. Now you take over. Take your time. Soak to your heart's content. Enjoy. If you need help, call."
"I won't need any of your friggin" help," she snapped.
"It doesn't hurt to know you can call for help," he admonished as he closed the door behind him. "It's good to know."
As the door clicked shut, she moved across the room and snapped the lock. "There, that'll keep the old pervert out," she sneered. The water in the tub looked inviting. What th' hell, why not, she thought. It's no skin off my nose. It's his water bill. Slowly, painfully, she undressed dropping her soiled garments in a heap on the thick brown carpet. Stepping gingerly into the tub, she squatted and immersed her aching body under the surface of the soothing hot water.
She sat quietly, relaxed, soaking, glancing about the room. Of a sudden she wished she was home...really home, in her own home, her own bathtub, and able to enjoy her own bedroom with her stuffed dog, Phideaux, propped conspicuously against her pillows. Tears welled in her eyes, then trickled down her cheeks. She wiped at them with the washcloth. They wouldn't stop.
Chapter 6
Dave had heard the click of the lock after leaving the bathroom. He smiled to himself. Sensitive wench for a whore. Young, hard and tough as nails. I'm glad she isn't mine; I'm glad Sharon isn't like her -- and where the hell is she anyways? Why hasn't she contacted me, her own father? Two can play the waiting game, he‘d said one day, but the game had gone on too long, the days and months had now turned into years. Would she ever call? Would Doug call?
His thoughts popped back to the young whore. How did she get into prostitution, especially at her age? Then he shrugged the thought away. That's her story and her problem. Tomorrow she'll be gone and I can get back to my work.
He moved to the kitchen. He had a gnawing hungry feeling inside. The cheeseburger and beer hadn't really satiated his hunger. Food might be good right now, might even loosen up her tongue a bit, find out who she is. He set about rustling up some hot food.
Slowly rubbing the soapy washcloth over her body, the girl could already see discoloring bruises appearing on her arms and legs. She'd be a mass of black and blue bruises for weeks to come. Damn LeRoy! Yet, fearfully, she knew she had to get back on the street and hustle. Sure he'd slapped her around before, but tonight he was vicious; for the first time, she'd felt the fear of death. Tears ran freely now. "I wish I'd never ran away from home," she sobbed quietly into the washcloth. Thoughts of home, her mother, dad, younger sister and brother flooded her mind. She cried silently into the washcloth.