Crimson Joy

CHAPTER 9

Routine is routine, repetitious details endlessly pursued. I talked with the relatives of the victims, all of whom were bitter and saddened and outraged. All of whom felt that racism had caused their daughter, sister, mother, wife, to die; all of whom had talked before with policemen; and all of whom resented talking with another honkie who was pretending to care while he covered up for the white establishment, which harbored the killer. The bereaved are not necessarily smarter than anyone else.

In three days of this I learned absolutely nothing that the cops didn't already know.

"My daughter was a good girl, mister. She didn't do nothin so someone should kill her."

"Nobody wanted to kill my sister, man. She was a nice lady. She was working regular. She was helping out at home. You got no business trying to say it's her fault."

The hooker had no bereaved kin that we could find. I talked with her pimp. He was taller than I was and twenty pounds slimmer, with close-cropped hair and a one-inch part scribed in the middle. He had on a white tank top and maroon sweats and black high-top Reeboks. There were five or six small gold earrings in the lobe and up the outer curve of his left ear.

"I catch the motherfucker, I'll cut his ass in two," the pimp said.

"You'll have to take a number," I said. "Any thoughts who it might be?"

"Some kinky white John," the pimp said, staring at me.

"We were sort of guessing that too," I said. "You have any special kinky white John in mind?"

The pimp shrugged. "Most of them kinky, man, they down here cruising for hookers."

"Any that complained about bondage, stuff like that?"

"Complain, man? Shit. Hookers don't complain, get slapped upside the fucking head they start complaining. They do what the John wants and afterwards they gimme the money."

"Works out swell for them, doesn't it."

"Whores is whores, man. Ain't my doing."

"You hear any talk," I said, "any stories about guys into bondage,'s and m, whatever?"

"Shit, man, I said all this already. Sure there's Johns everybody knows about. Like handcuffs, gags."

"Ropes?" I said.

"Ropes, man, inner tubes, fucking anchor chains. Guys that like being spanked. Guys that like spanking. Guys that like rubber underwear.

What you want, I know Johns do all that shit."

"And you told the cops about them?"

"I give them every name I know, man. I don't like my whores getting clipped, you know. Makes me look bad. Costs me money. I want the motherfucker caught."

"Everybody wants the motherfucker caught," I said.

"Yeah, sure. Everybody killing themselves to catch some guy shot a black hooker."

"And four others."

"I hoping he does some white broad in shopping from Wellesley Hills, man," the pimp said. "Then we see some action."

"What do you call this?" I said.

"This? You here talking with me? Asking me about kinky Johns? That ain't action, man, that's blowing fucking smoke, man. That say, "Hey, we down here looking for who killing you jigaboos, boy. We trying."

Shit."

"You got any suggestions for action?"

"Not to you, man. We gonna catch the motherfucker one day and we gonna kill the motherfucker."

"We?"

"That's right, man, motherfucking we. People of fucking color, man, all right? That's who's gonna give you some action."

"I hope so." I handed him my card. "If it starts," I said, "I'd like to come watch."

He watched me get back in my car and pull away. In the rearview mirror I saw him put the card in his pocket.